On the salt marsh the wading birds are tweeting in the dark

As the mist rolls in from the sea and up the creek it is creeping

Engulfing all before it in its cold grey grip

It moves slowly over the water and crawls across the marshes

The temperature drops as if the dead have cast off their shackles

The dogs in their kennels shiver and raise their hackles

Silence descends on the land as it slips into its cold grey grip

It seeps into gardens and under ill-fitting doors

It puts its droplets on the trees and grasses

And when it freezes the landscape will be covered in ice jewels

They glitter in the new days sun

The mist that makes folk fearful has left a gift to be enjoyed