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Day 98 110811 366@40

The mist draws in, covers all the lands,
From the high hills, to the low sands.
A blanket of white, softens all you find,
Past the red poppies, and the telephone line.

Hills of the wolds, with nature all around,
Even the little birds, dont make a sound.
The low soft cloud, covers all you see,
Yet feeling so tranquil, and calming to me.

It now does vanish, all that I saw,
The mist does arrive, cant see any more,
All around me now, as I stand still,
The mist draws in, I'm at its will.


Copyright 1990 - 2013 Craig Wadner