Often in the Fog ----by David Mitchell The still nights of this longest summer are Kind in their fogbound separateness, Useful for measuring time in which No clock or calendar holds sway. Lights fade to the obscurity of minds Whose edges have been sheathed, gone to Seek truths that antedate their vast ambitions And to surf their medullary midnight lives. When I became a sleeper in days, a child For whom pain was banished only at the whim Of others, their notions of suffering small And full of brief remediation; when I was Given the night watch and instructed in the Keeping of others' dreams, wispy clouds of Fanged rage or reaching desire unrealized; When I became a tracer of souls in recollected worlds And followed the veins of their days across the Backs of weathered hands and faltering hearts: Then often in the fog I wondered why I could Hear no voice at all, comprehend nothing of Fate or future beyond the flow of rivers and The flash of dawn cracking down the alleys. But mountains would come, and the clouds descend To them as fog to the sea, leaving me to pace Duffy paths through new nights and old summers, Salvor of the unsalvageable and dreamer of Calmatives passed to dark-bewildered eyes crying for Some tiny light; there is often peace in the Mists of this final endless season, And I still reach quietly into the abyss To take the questing hand, Now when time's murmuring is hushed Enough that I can hear and recount The whisper of photons against the fog.       Often in the Fog poem Copyright ©  David Mitchell, All rights reserved Send private comments to publisher:  editors@artvilla.com Read the Often in the Fog and others at  https://www.artvilla.com Poetry Archive| Home| Poetry Links