The dog was uninvolved,
sniffing,
and shifting
between his ever-varying
Realities,
validated
by his Nose.
Fog, for me,
always enables countless
gateways:
the smell of grass in the summer air
intoxicating
a five-year-old boy,
a seascape in 1946:
the moonpath from
a Poya Moon, and
the Galle Face Hotel,
patio all a-silver
in that magick light:
the rough security of my Father’s hand
in mine,
during long
and happy walks home:
the song of the Howler monkeys
at dawn
at the Water Conservancy Lodge
on the Guyanese savannah:
true memories all,
located at different temporal loci
along the serendipitous path
of my life,
but then again,
then again
the fog shifts,
and we huddle,
awaiting the blessing
of the Stone Circle,
while the smaller of the two suns
broke dawn
with showers of violet
and then
and then
a grey glimpse
of something
so incredible,
so phenomenally
beautiful
that ...
Dog perused
guardrail scents
judiciously,
while an eastern sun
drank away the mist,
and any quantum foam
that may have
remained.
