The mist stalks the fields, fills the furrows and masks the hedges. Crows are ghosts hopping in and out of sight. Sound is deadened in the fog, my coat soon heavy with the enveloping damp, my hair clinging to my face. I look up, there’s a faint blueness above but no warmth as yet from the sun. As the valley deepens so too does the mist, the blueness disappears, hedges and trees are wraiths that appear then vanish. I can hear the river ahead and know that I am on the right path even as my disorientation makes me doubt it. The rushing water appears in front of me as I climb the style and I follow the bank which leads me to the old bridge. From here I can usually see the foaming weir, the distant peaks & the path I regularly follow but today all I see is the river below. As I leave the river’s edge and follow the rutted path I hear sounds in the undergrowth, skittering creatures taking advantage of the mist to venture out, small birds huddled on dripping branches waiting for the warming rays of the sun. The copse is dark, the leafy canopy already turning yellow, a few leaves fall through the wreaths of fog but as I emerge on the other side I can see the high peaks floating above the brume, trees seem more solid now, the blueness above reveals itself and there is a glimmer of sun. The climb now is steep, the path wider but uneven, the heather clings to rocky outcrops, a slight breeze moves the remnants of the mist and before me the moor is revealed. The peak is not so distant now, buzzards soar on thermals, the sun is warm on my face. I take off my coat, sit on a rock and wonder.
By Nita Lewsey
I'm a writer of short stories, flash fiction and am currently working on a novel. I've had stories published in anthologies and self-published a collection on stories on Amazon. I dream of writing full-time in the futureView all of Nita Lewsey's posts.