A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“Oh that my words . . . were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!” —Job 19:24

Andean Sunrise

Fog in the valley
like so much ocean brine,
or a September evening’s frost,
swaddles the mountains,
leaving only the peaks
seen below the forest.

The sun is low —
not yet out of her damping bed —
but from the fog-sea at the horizon
is sending rays to chase the clouds
back to the forest.

Now I think,
while the forest is merely awak’ning,
and not yet awake and alive;
I stare at the fog-sea,
the sun’s blanket,
and grip the mossy tree.

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