transforms the world

it flattens figures and forms
where once there were 3-D sketches

the beaver lodge 
half-sunk in the water
hides behind frail curtains of mist
trees are the stumps of ship masts
wrecked and abandoned

a clammy damp clamps
chill waves along the coast
as white wraiths gather

the world is gift-wrapped and distant
it no longer answers when you call
your words are ghosts echoing a lost horizon

sometimes there is a sparkle on the waves
other times the coast ghosts slow and silent

an occasional glimpse of the sun
brightens the clamp down of cloud

but today is a lost day foundering in the mist

though paths

and people

and places 
can still be found