Soft gray blanket seems too heavy a term.


Smokey cotton is closer but lacks the chill

Of a winter fog.




Exhaled ghosts of buried oceans.



That’ll do.


Chilly and

Isolating and



Being in a fog like that,


You almost expect to hear the wailing baying

Of the dreaded Hound that Holmes hunted.


On an evening full of mist phantoms

Each home becomes an individual island,

Radiating dim and distant light

And far away warmth,




But apart.




Anyone there?


Some days the fog lasts all day long.

Long, long, and lonely long.


Next day, the sun will rise

And drive down the spirits of the moors

And connect everything, again,

In crystalline light.


Breathe in the fog

While it lasts.

Soak in the chill

(Just a little bit)

And feel alone

(For a little while).

The sun will shine the brighter for it.


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