The morning’s dense, thick, veil of fog
has brought the near much closer;
and so, with less to see, this catalogue
reads thin, through small exposure.
Gone is the usual backdrop, gone
are the buildings, the blue sky and clouds;
and so, in close confines, I look upon
What through common place, daily habit shrouds.
New to view is an angled wall,
a postered print with crooked tilt,
indoor plants let go to sprawl,
and the remnant spots of coffee spilt.
. When distance fails to render topic,
. cite what sees the eyes myopic.
© Tim Grace, 7 July 2011
To the reader: I live in a city renowned for its clear blue skies; an envious average across all four seasons. Occasionally, the wide-blue-yonder closes in and our vista shrinks behind a grey shroud of fog. Those who talk of depression describe the sensation in similar terms. Grey replaces the colourful features of pleasant surroundings. Distance is detached from time and place; here and now demand attention; proportion is distorted.
To the poet: I remember driving carefully through the fog; mentally mapping my way through a course of visual memories. No doubt, I assumed my usual position at the back of a cafe. And from there, I realised my familiar palette of colours was absent; distant approximations gone. Everything, routinely overlooked (as too close to see) had been brought to the fore. I met the short-sighted poet.