Furtive Fog

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Furtive Fog

It always starts a ways away,
Funny how it’s never close by –
Up ahead and off behind,
But over there, 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,
And more like in a ping-pong ball –
I’m in the hollow centre here,
And staring at the distant wall.
So only at a certain distance,
In it sweeps, like an afterthought –
Like chasing the end of a rainbow,
So the start of the fog can never be caught.
I’m all alone, like a solipsist,
In a world without a sun –
But where I walk I clear the air,
I drive it out, I make it run.
I’m boiling off the sunken clouds,
I’m pushing back the grey –
So this is no pea-souper,
But a crystal consommé.

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