there’s a mist
from the west
blowing over the fence
in fine waves
abandoning the neighbor’s house
it drives
like the wind is behind it
though it’s still
outside
a dampened quiet
last night
I lay awake
to the sound of rain
in downpour
in droplets
like wet blows
struck upon the tin
by a tympanic hammer
with all asleep
struck specially
for my ear
it’s turned
to fog now
a sog
is closing in
taking the tall trees
out of my sight
though I know
they’re still there
.
.
.
.
I believe
they’re still
right
there
cling-wrap the day
there is nothing
else
to do
© Frank Prem, 2017
July 2017 Poem #26: collage – frost
I have never seen the word sog before: such a compact descriptor! I am also going to tuck away “cling-wrap the day” for some future use. I enjoyed every word of this poem.
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hehehe I may have made it up to suit my need …
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It seems to be a real word dating to the 1530s.
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Ah. Well, I do go back a long way …
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