Subtle the Fog

by John Herlihy

Subtle the fog that quietly flows onward as mist,

Quiet the fog that touches everything as blessed.

Soft blankets of mist that through valleys unfold,

Accompanied by an eerie silence never quite told.

The hill of fog rose hesitatingly into the blue of sky,

A mixture of white breath and frosted steams high.

Deeply, above earth’s surface, into heaven’s awning,

Seen as in the misty breath of sleepy infants yawning.

The veiled mist moving on as steamy waves of cloud,

The breathy silence wrapping hills in a white shroud.

Verdant valleys, mountain cliffs, overtaken, swallowed,

The whispering pines tremble with a feeling hallowed.

Moving over mountains, the sea, and forests of bamboo,

Its breath of fine mist blades of grass in a meadow bedew.

Assaulting the bright light of day with its shadowy essence,

Mystifying the nearby landscape with its ghostly presence.

Tall cities and open countryside, completely overtaken,

Bells in church steeples, sentinel towers, as if forsaken.

The entire opaque white ocean swallows all in its wake,

Nothing can escape the prodigious fog and its grim state.

Latticework of frost and hues of twilight can’t compare,

The enveloping vapors of rolling fog and its ghostly flair.

More silent than shadow, the fog creeps on polar paws,

The vaporous cloud envelopes the earth defying all laws.

Finally, the rich fog broken in swirling feathers of down,

The mountain peak in a state of undress without a gown.

Threatened shafts of sunlight pierce the pall with spears,

The fog now dissipates, leaving behind droplets of tears.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Wednesday 28 January 2026