The mystery of mist
lies heavy and light
across the water of the bay,
shrouding the horizon
and the first peeks of sun
in the early morning light.
Two swans swim in the mystery,
moving languidly and dipping
their black heads into the
the cold steamy water that
moves gently and certain with the tide
beneath the creeping presence of the fog.
And across the bay on the other side
there is nothing except a canvas of white
painted over and taken from sight
as if it never existed from eternity;
while in the water the veiled boats move
in their ghostly swaying and
nothing much is heard except
the cautious sounds of the morning birds.