What the Mind Produces

The Misty Plains

Prompted. Prompt below to prevent spoilers.

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Thick fog lies on the grass of the plains. The usually so vibrant colours of grass, flowers and trees are concealed by it. The sky is a pale, crisp light blue, but everything below is coated in the mist: Clouds that almost, but not quite, touch the earth - too heavy to stay in the sky.

I take in a deep, shuddering breath. The tangs of pine and sweet wafts of lavender that permeated the air on clearer days are muted now, absent even. Instead, the air is thick with the warm, moist smell of recent summer rain. It seems even the skies have shed a tear and dressed in drab colours in silent revery. 

Whether I should curse or thank this place for making my weekly visit so unpleasant this time, I cannot say. 

There is no sound here besides my crunching footsteps. 
If I weren't so familiar with this field, didn't know how beautifully it used to bloom with dashing colours of spring, how comforting the grass used to sway in a warm summer breeze, I might call it eery. 

The colours are dull, fog obscures the view, raindrops fall like tears from a lonely tree as I walk, never resting or pausing, in this silent field I thought I knew so well. Before.

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Write a passage describing a building, landscape or an object. Tell it from the perspective of a parent that just lost their child, but only describe the thing, not mentioning the parent, child or death. (min. 2 sentences, max. 1 page)