Winter Fog
WINTER FOG
Grey fingers soft as a pickpocket’s
Kingdom of the blind
With no one-eyed man
People appear and disappear for a moment
Ghost visitors to the realm
Steal in and out,
And are lost.
Feet pressed to the ground
Are the only assurance
That sooner or later
The robbed land will reappear
And the abdication of the sun will end.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
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