As Autumn rustles its way into Edale, days in the valley often start with dramatic low mists that linger lethargically at the foot of the hills. For us valley dwellers, particularly those along the river’s path, the mists envelop us in soft ignorance while the photographers who gather in the blue skies on top of Mam Tor look down and marvel at their lofty position “above the clouds”. Their shots of cloud duvets punctured by church spires, tall trees and the chimney from the cement works are destined for screensavers and twitter feeds, but I enjoy being down in the midst of the mist. So often things are too uncomfortably clear.
Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:
then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.
from A Martian Sends a Postcard Home, Craig Raine