Mist Held

North Yorkshire, early autumn

A blue-grey smear rises above the trees:
the moors are mist held today.
Their stone-circle eyes are closed,
the rivers as quiet as the empty roads,
and very softly do the bare trees sway.

I should be up there now,
wandering across the dark hills,
finding myself in the utter emptiness.

Instead I sit on this rickety bus
thinking how sick I feel.