Still Life

Give me a dawn stilled by mist, a gray haze unrisen. The shimmer of nocturnal lamps held high. A time for tree magic; a quite majesty, all growth halted, transpiring not, but held within a mystical abeyance. A pause on the lip of light, when woodland dreams are hung from trailing moss, or a dew drop drip, from spider webs of translucency - a fairytale time, when a walker's warm breath is the only path, through the stillness of self.