Furtive Fog
It always starts a-ways away,
And never closer by –
It’s up ahead and off behind,
But jst a little shy.
It seems I’m in a bubble,
In a force-field of my own –
And not a wisp may enter-in
My fog-exclusion zone.
It’s not like wrapped in cotton-wool,
But more a ping-pong ball –
I’m in the hollow centre,
Staring at the distant wall.
Then at a certain distance,
In it sweeps, an afterthought –
Like the end of a rainbow,
That is chased yet never caught.
I’m all alone, a solipsist,
A world without a sun –
But where I walk I clear the air,
The camouflage undone.
I’m boiling-off the sunken clouds,
I’m pushing back the grey –
So this is no pea-souper,
But a crystal consommé.
