I crossed the bridge of sighs when slips the day
Into that spirit world of charcoal grey,
Where the sea in slumber starts to fuse
Into the history of sky dome blues;
Where every noun is rhetoric of shape
Suggestively, as though obscured by crepe,
Swimming in a fugue of shifting vapours
In epilogue to light and coloured flavours.
Now all I hear is rhythm in the tide,
The falling crunch of waves, their hiss and glide,
Muffled fluting of hidden calling birds
Preferring music to the sound of words;
Then silence in the solemn clinging grip
Of graphite adjectives that form and drip.
There is an eerie obliteration that comes with the onset of a sea fog, an emphatic enfolding that transforms the senses from the seeing to the feeling, the listening, the moisture gathering in intimacy of the skin, enveloping, engulfing. It shares a ghostly thrall with the interpretation of natural sounds forming their own musical landscape, softening the definite and coaxing the mystical from imagination, playing on the lips as fantasy.
Something predatory lurks in the way sea fog drowns the land, suffocating noise, consuming evidence of visible signs of life, settling in symphonic humourless ownership over everything, a leaden subjugation of movement. It carries a slithering serpentine essence, a noiseless conspiritorial cunning, enigmatically pronouncing the dull, the bland, the formless, with a secret twilight of shrouded ghosts, whispering in unknown tongues.
© Tanmoy
©lostlove00
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