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Author Name: PremiumDr Fogg 4 Comments
Date Added: August 26, 2012 18:08:23 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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Type: Free Verse
Category: Topic Of The Week/Mist Add To Favorites | Text Only
 
The Mist
 
The Mist.
 
 
 

 

A veil of mist descended upon the Yorkshire moors. Like a stage curtain declaring the end, time to go home. In the pub feet shuffled uneasily, men began to leave. Tonight’s no night to be upon the moor, they knew instinctively.
 

 

Farmers checked their cattle early and made apace for their doors. Slamming them hard and bolting, shutting windows and shutter boards. Stoking up the fires the wives could feel it too, but not a word was spoken. The children, long abed, curled up tight, not knowing; yet they knew.
 

 

On the Moor the sheep and cattle wide eyed and breathing heavily, massed in groups for safety, their hearts racing, oh they knew. From generations past the warning came, make fast, beware the mist. The mist, the mist, ignore it at your peril, seek refuge while you can.
 

 

It moved so slowly, sometimes it swirled, it clung to rock and heather. It clung to trees and tumbled over bows, it filled the shallow valleys. It rose upon the crags, it seeped into the caverns its fingers long and cold. It soaked into the mosses and wisped around gravestones.
 

 

To those with ears to hear, it spoke.” I am malevolence I am older than time itself”. The priest heard it, he pawed through his bible, his cross clutched to his chest. He muttered prayers beneath his breath, lest the mist should take some interest.
 
Candles flickered yet air was still, stiller than a crypt.
 

 

Beneath the ground they heard it. Wakened in their tombs. The mist sunk in through coffin cracks and plucked their screaming bones. It whispered to them softly "I shall not abate until someone’s soul I’ve tasted before dawns early break.

 

Author's Notes:
I published this here a few weeks ago with an attached poem. Not sure if that complies with the challenge rules.
Report Offensive Poem.

'The Mist' Copyright © Harry William Harborne
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Comments:
Comment By: FreeFirestone Feinberg on August 27, 2012 10:03:16 AM Report
I must have MISSED this one before -- and I do most certainly think that this fine poem meets the mist TOTW requirements -- at least I can say that AMIDST our own little community, what?  Great poem, Bill.  Very English.  I always dig the moors -- and the mist -- and the fog -- we don't really have those things here... that is,  if I'm not MISTaken.   --David
Comment By: FreeTomahawk on August 26, 2012 07:12:42 PM Report


Whether or not this conforms, it's still great, Bill. I enjoyed the medieval bent of it and the somewhat adventurous hijinx. Well done, sir.


 


Len

Comment By: FreeLeonard Wilson on August 26, 2012 07:10:55 PM Report

OOOOOOOH111 Chilly fingers dancing up and down my spine... This is some very descriptive, creepy stuff, Harry...I can see you are a gifted story-teller. I LOVE this!



"It moved so slowly, sometimes it swirled, it clung to rock and heather. It clung to trees and tumbled over bows, it filled the shallow valleys. It rose upon the crags, it seeped into the caverns its fingers long and cold. It soaked into the mosses and wisped around gravestones."

 

I would love to see you post stories on this site...Ya got me trmblin' with this teaser..Couldn't help thinking about Basil Rathbone and the Hounds of the Baskerville.....Yer pal, len

Comment By: FreeShe Whispers on August 26, 2012 06:15:13 PM Report
OH... THIS IS GREAT AS WELL!!  YOUR A AWESOME WRITER!!!




 


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