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.
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,
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.