A mist hangs over everything

A mist hangs over everything

a mist hangs everywhere

Kluane brings out Prospector Jon's poetic side

A Summer 2015 Yukon Prospector Web Extra


The mountain above Kathleen Lake looms. Clouds and rain swirl around jagged grey peaks flecked with snow. Except where a large bowl has been clawed out by some giant, unseen hand. There, the clouds rest like a bowl of steaming, leftover milk. The grey gives way to green trees in stretches down the slope. Until they meet the black, round stones of the shore. Then the turquoise water; which waves roll white across the inlet.

And the mist hangs everywhere.

I can describe this to you in such meandering detail, because I sit on the lake shore.

I’m sitting, and trying to find a way to express the mirth inherent to this particular location, at this particular time.

It’s morning.  A rainy morning.  And the wind blows stinging drops of wet outside.  But the mirth is not subdued.  In fact, this faded scene of grey and green may be made more beautiful by it.

Birds twitter and cry overhead.  The waves lap gentle at the shore.  Somewhere in the distance is the low-roar of running water.  The stones underfoot crunch and grind.

There’s no one else around.  Not for a mile.  Down on these shores, on this cold morning, there is nothing but that mountain. That lake. And the mist.

It’s easy to pretend nothing else actually exists. 

It is impossible not to meditate.

Heads are busy places, with stops and starts at the intersections, and things to do and people to see and rushing and rushing.  But everything here is lost in the weather.

It would feel too dreamy if it were hot.  Too Corona-commercial perfect.  The mind has been moulded into equating scenes so picturesque as unreal. Non-substantive. Out of reach. Behind the glass...

“WHOA!” it might say. “Life is not like this. You must be gazing at a screen portraying grey and green.”

But in the cold.  The damp.  You can feel the weather wrapped around you.  There is no pretending this is some fantasy.  We’re wearing far too many clothes for that. 

This is life.

It’s a bit chilly. It’s a bit wet, and cold, and tiring. And it’s beautiful; the mist hangs everywhere.


Poem and Photos by

Jonathan Duncan 

prospector@harperstreetpublishing.com

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