Chimera flights

Stealing through the pre dawn dark

And the fey woods, the phantom mist,

Gentle azure, steely cobalt, like a water

creature roiled and stirred from its repose
gliding sylphlike over some great boggy
wetland, has its underbelly tickled by blades of

grass agleam with twilight dew, its cheeks

cooled by the mossy branches of pine trees

standing single file like a ghostly platoon

of sentry men guarding the secrets

of this strange, chimeric woodland, as a

morning horizon unfolds in the colours

of a woman unplaiting her auburn hair,

and the mist

swerves by the foothills of some great

silt and limestone mountain,

and swoops by a basalt rock shaped

like a knock kneed harridan,

and flits by a boggy grotto that must yet

harbour a slumberous fairy tale troll,

and tip toes by the sculptures of the riverbed,

an elfin creature crafted from granite and the

turnings of this earth and the flight of the stars

and the howl and the laughter of the wind,

and the mist

swirls and curls into itself atop a bayou upon whose

body a phantasmal world tosses its colours:

sandstone whites, marshland greys, dahlia pinks,

and the oranges and vermilions and crimson blankets

of autumn leaves in which this languorous world

wraps itself and goes to sleep, all kaleidoscopic

hues that bleed and unfurl into a strange

prismatic phantasmagoria,

and the mist,

above which half this world adrift, mountain tops

standing footless in a void like floating temples,

trees like the masts of ghost ships sticking out of

a shapeless pool of white, like what grand sails

must the world harbour underneath, and the susurrus
beckoning of a veiled distance by the snap of a
dry twig, by leaves crackling underfoot, by the
rustle of trees that sound much like rainfall,
always stirs me, 
standing in a metro line, 
or staring out the window at a city which,
to my view,
often unfolds on an overcast day,
like the onset of glaucoma.