Misty Mornings

It covers over mountain tops
and hides the rolling hills.
And winds its way up rivers
dimming swirls and rills

It dances through the forest
with the spirits of the trees.
And hides the fields and hedgerows
then hovers on the breeze,

On the lake it sunbathes,
with feathered falling motion
Yet settles in the valleys
Like a liquid silver ocean

It mingles in the churchyard
with souls of the long gone,
Then frightens playing children
With a half heard mournful song

Inhabits ruined cottages
with smoke from empty grates.
And grasps at passing pilgrims
With icy fingered fate.

It touches all the spiderwebs
makes crystal chandeliers
But in its passing over
leaves a washing line of tears.

Legends ghosts and fairies
all hide within its folds
But so do prayers of pilgrims
And the love of long-lost souls

That is why my homeland
By strangers is dismissed
Because the heart of My Galicia
Is hidden in the mist

By Abigail Thorne