Winter Morning Poem by Les Littleford

The morning mist surprises,
its delicate long fingers
sliding silently, surreptitiously
in from the river
creeping into every crevice
hanging from every branch.

It mutes the morning traffic,
shrouding the city behind its gossamer veil
allowing mere glimpses of sky,
the promise of a brighter day.

Slowly,
as the sun starts to spear into the Gorge,
it fades
drifting in diaphanous clouds over the cataract
resting stubbornly on the Tamar basin

Suddenly
the air is dazzling bright,
the last remnants
melted in the morning warmth.