Saturday, November 4, 2017

Morning Fog in Porto

It was early when I took my walk
along the banks where gulls
cried but I could not see them.
Morning fog was everywhere,
Obscuring the river, the buildings, the road.
Yet this suited my mood.
My fuzzy head, my uncaffinated soul.
The worries that had kept me up
Uncertain of what lies ahead,
Regrets that lay behind.
But here on my morning walk
I could only see what was right before me.
What was ahead was cloudy and hidden.
What was gone, forgotten.
Across the river cyclists in orange vests
Shot out of the mist like flames
Flashing like a promise or a dream
Then they too are gone
and once more I can see
almost nothing at all.


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