The Fog

Slowly the fog,
Hunch-shouldered with a grey face,
Arms wide, advances,
Finger-tips touching the way
Past the dark houses
And dark gardens of roses.
Up the short street from the harbour,
Slowly the fog,
Seeking, seeking;
Arms wide, shoulders hunched,
Searching, searching,
Out through the streets to the fields,
Slowly the fog –
A blind man hunting the moon.

— F.R McCreary

Twilight time

We’ve taken to walking in the evening after dinner. The road rises steeply to meet us, you can feel it in your calves, as if gravity increases with altitude. Trees reach across to shake hands, congratulating each other on another fine day. Lilies start to spiral inward, their yellow throats glowing in faces of orange. Under the pines the darkness condenses from the air and settles like silt in a pond. It rounds the edges, turns trees into hills, gives them a solid shape you can feel a hundred yards away. Reminds me of “Evening” from the The Moody Blues’ “Days of Future Passed.”

It’s late, the dishes await.