A thick billowing white carpet covered everything, following the contours of the ground exactly; filling every hollow and dip of the undulating grass; smothering every rise and hillock; absorbing all sounds: the beautiful melody of the dawn chorus' unseen singers; the gushing of water through a weir; the gentle lowing of cattle – the music of all the invisible life teeming around me fell dead on the moisture-laden air. Gentle, wispy, finger-like tendrils crept their way up and around the legs of the livestock that sparsely populated the shrouded landscape.
In the distance, dreamy spires appeared hazy in the gloom, their bases hidden by an almost unperceivable wall of trees, glowing orange with the artificial light of hundreds of street lamps. That glow (and a similar one coming from behind) were the only sources of light breaking into the fog; bathing everything in a strange orange, leaching all other colour from the scene and making it seem like an alien landscape.
From the left, a train rattled its way towards the city, hidden from view but still tainting the fresh morning air slightly with diesel fumes. The fumes mingled with the aromas of nature; the pretty fragrances from the flora and the musky scents from the animals, before dispersing to leave natures' perfume to take hold again.
To the right, heading for a lock that avoided the ferocious weir, was a bright and colourful narrow boat slowly meandering its way upstream to on the river the skirted the western side of the meadow. It stood out in the muted, bland landscape with its garish reds, yellows and greens.
A startled heron flew up out of the cleft the river ran through, scared by a solitary blonde rower who came too close to its perch to avoid the narrow boat. The blonde rower caught Morgana's eye: she was beautiful. The long, slender, white arrow sliced through the water and a thin layer of mist, gaining speed as it flew downstream parting a flock of geese who noisily flapped away from the threat of being impaled by the speeding arrow. The rower gracefully began to curve around to take a bend in the river and just as she was disappearing from view, the sun, which had started to rise, broke through the veils of moisture and lay a golden path upon the water for the blonde beauty follow. How fitting, Morgana thought. She gets taken away by a sunbeam.
The sun continued to rise, lifting the mist with it to reveal: the grassy ground of the meadow, dotted with the occasional thistle or flower; the fence and foliage the train track was hidden behind, to the left; to the right, the golden, curving, meandering river that lazily wound around the edge of the meadow; and at the far end was a city being revealed spire by elegant spire from the ever-thinning hazy blur. The dawn chorus ended with a cacophony of birds adding their voices to the lament, whilst becoming visible as they darted about looking for food at the start of a new day. Natures' music no longer fell dead on the air.