On this winter’s morning in the Overberg countryside of South Africa, the low peaks of the Small River Mountain range are laden with sunlit clouds; and in the gentle valleys at their feet, mists enshroud the hills.
I fail to see the point of “poetry” that can only be described as prose impersonating verse. Splitting a few deadpan sentences into separate lines and giving them a whimsical title is an insult to the art form.
Sometimes, one must refrain from using certain sounds—vowels and consonants—here, so that they have the maximum impact there. Of course, much depends upon the nature of the thought one wishes to express: a gently musing one may benefit from a succession of similar-sounding words because the alliteration creates a soothing effect, but to construct a climactic moment—a line that culminates in a crescendo—the sounds that produce the pivotal words must be unique.