Living by the sea we occasionally get sea mist, but it isn’t often very thick, just mysterious… we can see almost to the end of the road, almost, and almost to the top of the hill, almost, and out the back to the houses on the main part of the village, almost. There is something magical about really dense fog – although it can be terrifying too… but just round ordinary harmless streets in little villages, where there are the sounds of voices and there is no clue whether the speakers are near or further away, sounds distorted and strange.
I’ve written several times about fig in my novels, sometimes it is benign, sometimes not. This is a poem by Jones Very, born in Salem Massachusetts in 1813.
The Clouded Morning
The morning comes, and thickening clouds prevail,
Hanging like curtains all the horizon round,
Or overhead in heavy stillness sail;
So still is day, it seems like night profound;
Scarce by the city’s din the air is stirred,
And dull and deadened comes its every sound;
The cock’s shrill, piercing voice subdued is heard,
By the thick folds of muffling vapors drowned.
Dissolved in mists the hills and trees appear,
Their outlines lost and blended with the sky;
And well-known objects, that to all are near,
No longer seem familiar to the eye,
But with fantastic forms they mock the sight,
As when we grope amid the gloom of night.