Nor lands that seem too dim to be burdens on the heart: Nor Uladh, when Naoise had thrown a sail upon the wind Where one found Lancelot crazed and hid him for a while Nor Avalon the grass-green hollow, nor Joyous Isle, I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.Īnd once the moon has risen, what is there to do, other than sit under it? This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain Ī cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly. Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless, The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: So, for your reading pleasure, Moon Poetry, beginning with the moonrise: The problem is there are so many to choose from, it’s hard to narrow it down to just a few. Poetry dedicated to the moon! You know you’ve been waiting for it, and it’s only taken me a few years to finally get to it. Maybe I’ll sit down with it, and look over the harbour, seeing it through it’s cloudy eyes. Sandburg’s image of a Feline-esque fog, that creeps in slowly, takes a look around at the scenery, and then moves on. They weren’t even remotely visible, since they chose to fly over the blanket which covered the North Country.Īnd this is why I can’t relate to Mr. It was so thick, the numerous flocks of geese flying overhead from the river across the street were heard, but not seen.
It still permeated the landscape once I arrived at school, which gave the campus an eerie appearance…I couldn’t even see the buildings on the far side of the quad. And even once I had banished it, I had to keep turning on my windshield wipers in order to enforce the banishment, for the fog kept trying to take over, again. It took me 15 minutes to get the car warmed up enough to dispel the murkiness from my fog covered windshield, so I could see the road well enough to drive. I’d love her job…she gets to sleep in whenever she wants, it seems. And apparently the blanket was still pulled over Mother Nature’s head as I pulled out of the driveway to go to school. I’m certain Mother Nature feels the same way.Īt any rate, our first blanket of fog of the season arrived early this week, after a particularly chilly night. I think this latter image is one which is easy for me to see, for now that the nights are getting colder, and I’m feeling Winter tapping on my window, all I want to do is pull the blanket up over my head and stay warm in my bed until Spring. Winter isn’t at the door like she’s taking her thick blankets and pulling them up over her head to try and get a just a few more days of sleep before she has to get up and endure the cold. I have often wondered if this fog was Mother Nature’s wy of pretending Mr. It also seems to flow over the land en force when the nights are beginning to become very cool, and Old Man Winter is just waiting for the right moment to cross the threshold of Autumn and take over its residence.
It rolls in, like dense waves on an ocean of clouds, covering the entirety of the landscape in one fell swoop, in a thick, pea-soup type of blanket. Here, in the North Country, the fog does not creep. It actually has more to do with the fact that I’ve never seen fog creeping along on little cat feet. I love to think about fog in this way, but not merely because of its poetic-ness. Carl Sandburg once penned a poem about fog, stating that “fog comes on little cat feet…” The imagery here is amazing, as the reader can almost see the fog, in feline form, looking out over the harbour after creeping in on its furry little paws.
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