The Grim, Grey Fog.

A walk on a foggy Autumn day.

November 4 o'clock, it's already getting dark,

As I take an afternoon sojourn in the local park,

The familiar fields look eerie, more like some alien place,

As the grim, grey fog enfolds them in its cold embrace.

From behind the deep grey curtain a jogger does emerge,

Avoiding hard black tarmac, running on the grassy verge,

As he draws along beside me, he quickens up his pace,

And the grim, grey fog enfolds him in its cold embrace.

As I amble on I come across a tree beside the river,

It's drooping, dripping branches cause an involuntary shiver,

While walking by, late clinging leaves brush against my face,

And the grim, grey fog enfolds it in its cold embrace.

I walk some more and notice that there's no-one else around,

And the damp cloud that surrounds me stifles every sound,

It's easy to imagine I'm the last of the human race,

As the grim, grey fog enfolds me in its cold embrace.

Reviews

[Marie]

You describe the fog perfectly. When sight and sound are muffled, it can seem as if there's no one else in the world.

[Mick Burke]

Thank you Marie.