And it swept down on us like a bad heart.
It hated noise, would’ve banished the colour
green from the wilds, from rolling slopes,
from the world. Such was its character.
Featureless but fingered and curled like hair
into gnarls and branches, grey plumpness
in animation, and a hatred of cleanliness
and finery. It bites at our ears and burns
the joy of hearing. No birds shall sing, no
blossom shall shine in its consequence.
All beauty to its pleasure, occupied and
drowned in its misted shift. Fog. Fog.
Written for Margo’s Tuesday Tryout. “Fog”