The Fog Creeps Slowly
By John Herlihy

Fog enters a nature walk without invitation;
Creating a rhythmic step as a new sensation.
The fog creeps slowly along on tiptoes of dew,
Hushed in the after dawn, leaving behind no clue.
It appears out of nowhere like invading ghosts in the air,
Touching the tree trunks with fingers as in a prayer.

The dawn takes on the feel of a comforting cloister,
Untouched and pure as a pearl within an oyster.
The fog wraps all of nature in ethereal mist,
Mysterious and mystical, if you get my gist.
It meanders thru a labyrinth of passageways and lanes,
Like a ghost moving in slow motion wrapped in chains.

The fog moves like a coward in the open ground,
Then makes like a thief toward the ocean sound.
The bone white veil ebbs and flows like a restless tide,
We feel such movement deeply within us inside.
It wraps all of nature in its shroud of unholy dread,
Before settling down everywhere as a holy wonder instead.

Around the fog hovered a compelling sense of presence,
Giving the feeling of being watched in my very essence.
There is something about fog that arouses primeval instinct,
Ever wary and watchful as I walk through this eerie precinct.
I could feel a very old sorrow enter on the fog’s broom,
Reluctant at first then surrounding everything in its gloom.

Wisps and columns of fog rising out of the colossal trees,
As if on a spirit-journey, pausing in prayer on its knees.
The fog lifted me to a strange and intimate awareness,
Of an ancient past that does not yield itself to tenderness.
Phantom-filled fog inclined to play tricks on a malleable mind,
Harboring emotions and sacred sentiments of the human kind.

The fog now fragmented, floundering and breaking away,
On its way to the edge of the horizon without undue delay,
Following paths thru forest and glade a hundred years old,
Leaving behind in its wake thousands of years of being bold.
In wandering, if ever you encounter such a mystical specter,
Breathe deeply its primordial air as a sign that you respect her.