by David Coulson Adams

I n 19__ October fog
Occurred, as usual. Unusual,
At least to me, at least more so than fog,
Was that I had your presence, actual
Back then, suffused all through my dawning life.

I t wasn't brown like Eliotic haze
But just as palpable. I'd need a knife
To pare the pink, the lavender and maize
Dew dripping on my flag-stoned memory...

Y ou seeped - a warming draught - beneath my doors,
My uncaulked windows, my illusory
Defenses, settled down upon the floors
I daily walk, and still it cools my feet -
They ache, I pace so much - to tread my rug,
My brushing fingers dampened on the seat
You've clouded with your absence, and I hug
Myself, as men found outdoors in the cold
Will do, but I am in, and warm, and wish
That I were you to hug; then I would hold
You tightly to my chest, and never wish
To walk, or sit, or move.

                      S o open wide
Each window! Open every door! Invite
Still more your sweet precipitance to bide
Here with me. Let it show well in the light
By which I read your book, its musty smell
Sweet, from your damp. It's beautifully bound,
With illustrations, gold and caramel,
Of Titian's Flora on the cheery ground
Of Dickens, nude. The pages never crack,
And every time I read it, it has grown:
First, from some old Achaean fragment, black
With Troy's fall around the edge, to brown,
A cyclical Elizabethan hymn.

I s Sidney's rough creation born at last,
And crawling with a smile to Bethlehem,
Delivered healthy, as the father passed,
Defending what is noble with his death?

Y es. I maintain the brightest it is best
Should die, expending with his final breath
His duty. Then his heart within his breast
Shall burst, and he dies, not from any wound,
But like St. Stephen, with his dying gaze
Held upward, living lost and dying found,
Anaesthetized with fog, and golden haze.

M y darling lost and Paradise regained,
Will you inhabit this Jerusalem,
New, shining with its golden spires, though stained
With patinas of bloody Grace? You dim
Its glory, till the sun has burnt away
Your healthy dew. Let my convection heat
You. Then you'll tower as a cloud, and day
Be hidden Hope, but memory complete.

D o not be fog and past, my dear, but rain
And present. Dry me with your northern breath
After the thunderstorm, and riping grain
Will rug the steppes, and heather will the heath.

W ill winter come again? I think
This Autumn never will be lost,
And should you never rain, I'll drink
Your fog, for that won't turn to frost.