Fog

Folding in upon itself.
Blocking out any view.
It's thick and dewy wet.
Like breathing water ashore.

Of where it goes or from whence it comes,
One can but guess and to the mist succumb.
The sky invisible and the ground ethereal.
Golly gee it's like pea soup around here.

Bump!  "Ouch.  That tree wasn't there a minute ago.
Ah, now I know where I am."  You say out loud.
One, two, three, reach.  One, two, three, reach.
This dance is performed until at last you pass the forest.

Come along my friend and walk with me.
For at last the fog has lifted and we can see.
There is no more wondering, or doubt,
This way we must go in order to get out.

Fog.  It's a mysterious thing.
You can about it begin to sing.
Going hither and yon, with care you must use.
Otherwise in the end you can have a concussion, your body abuse.

Fog, it's a cool thing.
About it I would surely sing.
Yet I'll save your ears,
For in the talent of singing, I am in arrears.

Fog
by Steve Cope
Poet's Practice Pad
Prompt #45
07-13-2010 Awarded Blue Ribbon in writing.com
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