We step out into the monochrome morning, the dog and I, and wander through a gossamer shroud laid low over the riverside. I follow the bend of the tarmac path into a silky world of solitude, while she noses through sparse shrub, her position given away by the softest snap of a twig as she gingerly pads across mulchy ground beside the stream. Over the hunched back of a small bridge I stop and stare down. Long green tresses finger the stony bed, bringing an image of Ophelia into my mind. The dog’s head snaps up to something beyond my senses. Involuntary fear makes my heart race as I stare into the ethereal fog. Fuchsia clad, a jogger pierces the pearly film and, hand hooked in collar, we stand and watch her pass. Fading away, as if fashioned from the mist itself, she becomes something imagined on our morning walk.