Threatened,
the senile soldier grabs his defunct gas mask,
crems orders to his non-enlisted troops.
In record time, the brilliant sun and I
are overpowered by rolling, marching mist
that binds us in a thousand icy arms
and sends ten thousand damp, grey, chilly fingers
to search and find, obliterate all warmth,
accept our five-Fahrenheit submission.

Triumphant,
victorious fog stands fast; his reinforcements
exult along the far-off, fourth-off hill.

Copyright 1980  Ev McTaggart

Published in Symbols, the 1996 poetry publication of Canadian Authors Association, Niagara Branch