“ere the mist/ Had altogether yielded to the sun” ~ William Wordsworth

Some poets want a haze on Scalfell scenes

And mist that lingers on a death-hued tarn.

These writers think that distant history cleans

Our Tuesday tedium.  A rhyming yarn

Is best if it shows ancient fog.  Not strong

Enough to show like Homer men stabbed through

With spear or sword, the rip of sharpened prong,

Or final throes of shrieking, life askew

To darkness made of blackness in the eyes

That in their final moments see a haar

That covers them, these authors do not rise

To ultimates, their sentiment their scar.

  Away with prettiness of Skiddaw streams

   And deal with agony and ruthless screams.

~ Phillip Whidden