Sunday, March 1, 2015

Skin Of Fog

Skin Of Fog

Fog furs the new-thawed ground,
felts brown husks in grey
as if winter had never been
or freeze.
A self-disguising spray
blurs the letters on my wall
as if there'd been no scarlet scrawl,
just a wound of air rough-covered with
a gypsy's laugh,
fog's soft uneasy peace
dead at the first sign of heat.

~February 2015

 posted for      real toads

Weekend Challenge: Flash Fiction 55 Plus
Kerry's plus this month is to add a color. Mine is the color of fog.

Image: The Pont de Courbevoie. 1886, Georges Seurat
Public domain via


  1. I'm struck by the final four lines, especially; the physicality visible in the gypsy laugh, and the keen observation in the final couplet. I first read 'skein of fog', but that's just my deteriorating eyesight... ~

  2. Fog's an ambivalent intermediary here, between both the winter that has passed and the heat that is to come. A safe distance and a strangling void. Yes: "A wound of air rough-covered with /
    a gypsy's laugh..."


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats