The fog doesn't roll in
around here,
it creeps,
not on long fingers,
but in tiny,
swirling tendrils
of mist
that grow
and thicken,
until the end
of the wet black street
is not visible.

Such fog
feels like a soft,
cool, damp
cocoon
that wraps around
everyone and everything
like a cool breath
upon the cheek,
or a fluttering kiss.

When out in the fog,
the light is diffused
into a soft white
that makes the grass glow,
and the puddles glimmer.

It seems that
the end of the world
is nearer,
that the very edge
drops off into fog,
that the veil
of clear sunlight
has fallen open
to reveal mysterious mist
and roads with no end.

This is the kind of weather
where you'd expect
to find lovely
and wild women
wandering in the wood,
their long skirts
trailing wetly
in the damp bracken.

This is the kind of weather
where you'd expect
to find small men
with pointy red caps
crouched in the depths
of black and gnarled oaks.

This is the kind of weather
where you'd expect
to find lithe young
girls with green
in their skin
leaning against trees
then fading into them
at the snap of a twig.

This is the kind of weather
where stags turn to princes
and hags to princesses
and all the mean and nasty
things of the forest
hold back,
just for a moment,
until the magic
of the mist clears.

Even in fairytales,
nature can enchant
the enchanted,
and fog can subdue
the ferocious,
and the veil
between the worlds
can part
with the coming of fog
that clouds reason
and opens eyes.