Cumberland Mist

The mist is at ease
like a head on a pillow
or a lethargic breeze
in sails that do not billow.

The mists scarcely move,
like breath from a sleepy laugh
or wool brushed soft and smooth,
loosely wound round the distaff.

Phantom fleece, it floats,
the soul of a suicide,
the tiny moonlit motes
the breath of the river wide.

As languid lovers
beneath the Cumberland moon,
a froth of silk covers;
sighing waterfall aswoon.