Fog

Shards of white sun
excite the water in my memory
its glitter gifts me tinsel,
childhood delights, tears
of the past.

Now there is only fog, a paste
of air making you ghostly,
the world a place of crisp echoes
of tangible distance.

We are all lost, adrown now,
sinking in hueless day,
our skin prickled
by the sand of ice.

My memory speaks of sea-foam,
the salt of hope, summer of once-was.
The shape of your voice rings clear,
like the clank of fog shadows.

I am a bat, finding today by ear,
feeling my way between other people,
lamp posts, standing stones
that mark the time
since you left.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.