Good old fog has a way of imitating an unclear mind where we conjure up those things that haunt us. There is a chill in the air from all that humidity running down the backs of our necks and intensifying what we think we see over what we can.
Sure glad you made it to the garage one more time, escaping that hideous unknown that's creeping out of the marsh and about to gobble you up… Yummy!
There's no doubt about it, Mother Nature, in whatever guise can be scary, as you so ominously describe in this poem. Thoughts of home, why am I not there, how can I get there in order to "comfort abide". Poems lie even within the mist. Nicely done. John
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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Sure glad you made it to the garage one more time, escaping that hideous unknown that's creeping out of the marsh and about to gobble you up… Yummy!
Ron
well done poet xo