fogwalk

skykissed, the earth seems shy

muffled by a ragged net of condensed cloud

everything goes quiet

 

earlier it burned off

now it rolls in off the straits

leeching colours and shortening views

 

each drop holding a cemetery scent of early dawn

when spirits slide sideways into the melt

each drop a stitch in the shroud

 

this fog sleepwalks through empty rooms

while shadows punch slivers of distraction

into softsilvered rivers

 

each drift a tangible intangible

never quite in reach

never quite vanishing

 

floating wordlessly

with all the effort of nothing

drafting tailwinds of an idea

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013

 

 

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