Fog

A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable; the lighthouse
extinct, the islands’ spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in the mumble of ocean.

Tactile
definition, however, has not been
totally banished: hanging
tassel by tassel, panicled
foxtail and needlegrass,
dropseed, furred hawkweed,
and last season’s rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest,
clearest sea-crystal.

Opacity
opens up rooms, a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla, as Georgia
O’Keeffe might have seen it,
of foghorns; the nodding
campanula of bell buoys;
the ticking, linear
filigree of bird voices.

 

–  Amy Clampitt

Image: Into the Fog by Raindog

 

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3 Comments

  1. Love this. Also love the picture. It makes me think of England. It also somewhat makes me think of the end scene of “Gone With The Wind”, where Scarlett is running after Rhett in the fog.

    Have a great day! 🙂

    Like

  2. Love the combination of pic and poem -an excellent pairing! Thanks for the introduction to Amy Clampitt as well.

    Lis

    Like

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