Second-Storey Moor
On a misty-morning
Winter January day,
I look out the window
All I see is fog and
Lack of definition
Except for one tree
Of bare branches
Reaching black into
My windowed sky
I didn’t expect the
Art and science of
This: skillful, narrow
Firm and slender
Branches reaching
With a clarity that
Startles a black vision
Against smoky
Pervasive mist
Grey behind each
Branch, rendering
All else vague
What is familiar
Now is mystery
And invitation
clcouch123 
January 9, 2016 at 4:02 pm
I love the musings on the art and science of a moor. I like how it startled you. I’ve been hating the fog lately, but the image you cut through to see was worthy.
January 9, 2016 at 5:57 pm
Thank you. Where I am, the fog is a novelty enough to appreciate anew. Though night-driving through it is another matter.
January 9, 2016 at 6:41 pm
This is a beautiful poem with such strong imagery. I love the last line, how the familiar becomes a mystery. It reminds me of when it first snows and it turns areas you only walk in sometimes into places you suddenly don’t know the way in. Great job Christopher!
January 10, 2016 at 4:57 pm
You’re so right about the snow and its effects. Thank you!