In the Mist

Now and then, it almost seems, a thing that has not been before, a fantasy occurs. A shore becomes significant with gloom, a spire remembers Camelot, a tree has meaning past its bloom, a truth is felt without a thought. So, on this morning, when the mist drops trees and shrubs into a sea, and yellow sun does not insist with fog about what it must be but slips into a slot and waits for origins yet to begin - this eerie, dim world postulates (it seems) past centuries coming in.

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