Fog, like a creeping thief
came silently at night
stealing away the hills
and houses that we knew

loom up like ghosts,
the jewelled pond at sunset
is tucked within the bag upon his back
and is no more.
Only the nearest garden fence
has some existence,
all else has gone into
a whiteness dense as rock,
no sky, no landmark
and no sound or call
an eerie stillness
blankets over all
and still he creeps . . .
dim headlights loom
and tremble as they
inch upon their way
where all that yesterday
was bright and gay
on waking ,
has been spirited away.
* * * * * * * *
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