"Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds." - Bleak House
The description of the fog runs for a good two more pages, as typical of Charles Dickens. That is his beauty. And yet, I loved this simple 12-lined poem that captured all of the fog in its truest spirit. This is a poem by Helen Cadbury.
Earth-sweat, sea-breath,hangs about, cold-shouldering street corners,disconsolate, untouchable,smothers horizons, pockets whole villages,sprays dirty thumb-smudge graffition city walls, in ditches,spits chill onto the woollen scarves of citizens,who shrink into their coats, avert their gazeuntil the cloud-fall sighs and heaves itself away- a slow unfathomable fade -to hide in low valleys and the shadows of churches,waiting to muster when the day's back is turned.
Do you have a favourite imagery that has been etched in your brain? Share in the comments below!