The hills are shrouded,
their tops hidden
their wooded valleys
full of thrushes
and little birds calling
Flocks of finches
Little gatherings
of blue tits,
Long tailed tits
whispering softly
Like little lovers
Into little ears.
The essence of mist
Without the mist
My white road
Leading to a white horizon
A white sky above
The green hills are pale
Deer on the moss
Leap like salmon
Over the weir
And a woodpecker
In looping flight
A vivid music
In black and white
#CoSopoetry