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Fading into Fog
The foggy grey steals you away,
as I float aimlessly from the dock.
I see you standing there with tan skin
and jet black hair, all turning foggy grey.
The pilings and boards,
salt-polished silver, all foggy grey.
The drops on your hat splash silver, then fade.
The buildings we painted together: foggy grey.
The way you related to me: like a late, great fog.
The children we created, fading into a fog of depression,
waiting for the sky to clear.
I watch as your skin turns ghostly white,
your hair, too, as white as sunlight through the fog.
No decision, no word, no commitment, just fuzz.
No red of passion.
No red of action.
No red like the lighthouse rooves, beacons of hope,
peaks poking above the fog.
No red buoys or bumpers for direction or markers.
The red floater coats, the red boat, bobbing into oblivion.
Like a loon, I call you forever,
waiting to turn back at the slightest trill.
Nothing.
The fog swallows us all.
Ruth Hill was born and educated in upstate New York. She traveled North
America extensively, including two years in Alaska and five years sailing
BC. She is now a Certified Design Engineer in northern British Columbia.
Over 60 of her first year works have been selected for publication. Some of
her poems have been archived in Word Catalyst online magazine. Ruth enjoys
email from other writers.
Email: Ruth Hill
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