November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 12: Tricking the fog

 
Day 12: write a ‘strange’ poem (see link)
 
Tricking the fog
 
December’s fog hangs heavy-dusted,
slinks over every wall, under every stone
along the winding concrete bank,
a dog run wild off its leash,
lit by yolk-faced streetlamps,
iron limbs striding in formation
beside this swirling black of sea.
 
Icy breath caresses the body,
chills the dip between shoulder bones,
makes us shiver the entire length
of our spindly, goose-bumped arms.
 
Sea salt blasts my face, elicits tears,
my mouth breathing warmth into my scarf
growing damp. I worship my woolly hat,
hug my coat tight, feet unsnug.
And we pine for heat.
 
There is no birdsong to guide us.
Even the marauding gulls took cover.
We walk and walk and walk.
There’s nothing else to do.
It’s too cold to stand still.
 
We have no roof to hide under,
no letterboxed door to enter,
no worn-in sofa to sink into,
no TV channels to argue over,
no bed to rest our bones in.
 
We wrap ourselves up tight
against the temperature drop of night,
presents waiting to be opened
beneath the Christmas tree,
but there is no one to receive us,
no postage will cover our cost.
 
The lamps weave in and out, marking
territory, stalking any stranger who enters.
The fog caresses our solitariness,
this cold air our deep freeze,
the sea reticent to welcome us
each time we stop to peer in,
trying to fathom the depth below,
this swirling current, eerie stink,
a portal shimmering only for us.
 
But we are linked to the stars above,
glitter of the overhanging moon,
its spindled arc taking us back
to the beginning of time,
the dawn of the world we tread.
It holds stricken clouds like a boa
in a narcissistic dance across the sky,
jausts the fog for silent submission,
but even the moon loses.
 
I draw my dreams in the night sky,
spin alien crafts around constellations,
time travelling life’s surreal suppositions.
Uninvited, the fog steals my hand,
tugs me into a tight embrace
until I am staring into the abyss,
and all I can see is a dark mirror
reflecting every soul I’ve ever met,
every chosen path, every signpost,
every crossroad I stood at in confusion.
 
I always fight the fog’s greasy grasp,
wriggle, dive and weave until it folds.
The steely lamps dip and wink every time,
squeaking as they bend to look at me
in gratitude that I choose to walk among them,
this tiny human with such small, gloved hands
waving to them so they might see.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 12, 2026