For much of the past few weeks, the south coast has been dry, which is strange enough at this time of year. Stranger still is the enduring fog that has covered the region for days and days.
The fog has been heaviest especially in the early morning, and while we get an inkling of sun at midday, it seldom appears for long.
Years ago, possibly while in Grade 4, I read a poem in class that I remember to this day. It was not the first poem I had to read in school, but it was the first to appeal to me. It was different from the old, rhyming masters we had been reading and it opened a creative window of sorts for some of us: rules don't always apply, and images can be simple and powerful.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
During the past few weeks, the fog has come to our harbour and city, silently to be sure. It hasn't moved on. Yet.
Fog is by the American poet and writer, Carl Sandburg (1878 - 1967) and first appeared in his collection: Chicago Poems published in 1916. I'm not quite that old.