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London Fog

London Fog A muffled “Gong” as Big Ben strikes a singular, dull, one. It’s notched and numeraled face appears to be the same size as the pallid mid-day sun, that looks as if it’s sucking in the thinning bank of haze. Just jilted by the lithe, laughing lass from Leicester yesterday; a half-day hitching on the motorway, lorries and coaches blowing passed, fast. Driving our sad traveler to concede that his strategy (of thumbing it from the vortex of the A1/M1 roundabout) to flag a ride to Stonehenge, or to Nottingham, or anywhere but here, has proved wanting. So, with backpack strapped, the long hike back to hushed Hyde Park to finally rest and doze and dream… ...to caress, then lean. To become one loving flank on the wet-leaved, green ground of the forest… Her smooth calves quivered, as she skipped away; taut limbs glistening in the full moon’s light, as miniskirt and clogs receded into the trees. Elusive objects of desire, they say, were once called “Birds,” in London.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Date: 10/15/2020 10:07:00 AM
I was pulled into this poem by the brilliant opening and loved what I went on to read. A great poem Mark deserving of many views.
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Date: 10/14/2020 5:37:00 PM
Excellent, excellent poem!
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