The fog

We told you not to go too near the edge.
We did call you back.
But the fog was too dense…
…and you couldn’t, you wouldn’t hear.

People do it all the time
But they usually have the bloody music on,
And their eyes closed,
So they cannot see the way.

We thought you had more sense than that.

And when the swirling fog caught you in its arms,
You drifted with it, curling through the purple pathways
Of the smoky serenity.
It swept you with it into the floating clouds.

(The stranger in the village pub had said, “The fog in these parts
Is notorious. And bad.”
Fucking stupid city-dwellers us…
We didn’t bother.)

We went back to wait in the car,
We knew (erm, we hoped) you would return.

And when you came back
You had tears in your eyes.
And all we could do was look.

You said you had tried staring
At the sun.
That had hurt your eyes,
And you had fled from the sneering mist.

We met the stranger again. At the pub.
“Heavens be praised the fog didn’t take you too near the sun.
At least you turned wiser before you could be frizzled to these potato chips here…”