WHITE MORNING
White mists hung low as the first rays of the sun
Fought hard to tell us a new day had begun,
White tree ghosts hover, white ghosts arise
From lake and valley, none show fear or surprise.

Grass and shrubs also ghost-like rise steadily,
The world appears in total ghostly captivity,
To the rescue, the sun, turning white ghosts gold,
Strangely now ever more ghost-like they do unfold.

Unnatural the world appears, like on a higher plane,
As the ghosts seem reluctant to lose a moment of fame,
For the glory of the hour of that special misty sunrise
Will be a time I’ll always remember and ever prize.

As the sun showed her golden face over the earth’s rim
Slowly the once white ghosts change colours of dim,
But some cling to their form until the sun is quite high,
As we weave through their shapes as we drive quietly by.

When at last the ghosts have all gone and faded away
And the world is enveloped in a new glorious day,
A gift and diamonds left by the ghosts on tree and grass
So delight us with beauty which scenes non can surpass.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson September 19, 2002