December Poem by bryan wallace

A mid-December Sunday morning
Dawns bright, but misty, cold and fresh.
The gossamer cobwebs embellish
The hedgerow's frost-encrusted whins.

I don my woolly hat and scarf,
A warm geansaí beneath my coat.
My winter boots crunch
The wafer ice on the potholes.

My breath condenses and smokes
As I walk through the eerie,
The mysterious, all-encroaching mist
Giving my world a silvery vagueness.

Climbing uphill, at last I rise
Above it. I stop and look -
The whole town and Swilly Valley
Buried beneath a silver veil of mist.

Only St. Eunan's Cathedral Spire
Rises above it. Not a soul stirs,
The town still sleeps in eerie silence.
I am king of my gossamer-mystery world.