Among orange-tile rooftops
and chimney pots
the fen fog slips,
gray as rats,
while on spotted branch
of the sycamore
two black rooks hunch
and darkly glare,
watching for night,
with absinthe eye
cocked on the lone, late,
passer-by.
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Comments
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Orange, gray, black, absinthe - such lovely detail to color. This is succinct in a powerful way. A beautiful detail.
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dark perfection
I dearly love fog. I've read and written many poems about it, and seen it bodied as Carl Sandburg's cat, my own sleep-deprivation, and now this awesome backdrop on a Poe-esque scene from which "Nevermore" might have chimed so readily. What talent to evoke so much with so little. This poet is topping my favorites list.
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