Morning Mist

In the blue grey morning mist before the birds have thought to rise, I wander through the empty streets, a new world greets my sleepy eyes. Such ghostly silence taunts my ears while dew-drenched morning strokes my skin, I dare not break the virgin quiet yet long to cause some soothing din. My feet tread slowly, rhythmic steps as if with purpose, on and on. I try to conjure memories of brighter mornings long since gone. A gentle breeze bestirs the air and wakes some paper from the street, inciting it to rise and fall then rise again, a haunted sheet that rustles in a whispery voice. I turn my head to make reply; it seems to laugh and, with a flounce, sprouts flighty wing and passes by. A strangled sob escapes my lips, an icy tear rolls down my face; I wonder what I'm doing here. The mounting dread provokes my pace. This street's now smaller; up ahead a corner waits in menacing pose. What dire horrors lie round there? The fear within me spreads and grows and, in the swirling blue-grey mist I'm lost, as panic seizes me. Then, like some holy messenger, a shaft of light comes suddenly. My heart takes up a stately pace, as there's a waking sparrow's call. I see the new-born morning rise, feel night's fatigue as dewdrops fall then, wondering at my foolish fears, I turn the corner easily and, where the mist has disappeared, my own world now looks good to me.