The Fog

Writing in response to the prompt from to write a poem about a picture. I have deviated from my normal style of poetry and am writing in free form poetry.   I am using a photo from of fog and fields around a town.  It can be viewed at

The fields are full of life.
The land is in strife.
The fog is invading.
It covers the low areas first, then crawls up the hills, slowly creeping, silently sneaking, making its way into the village.
The land is resisting. It rises sharply into the air as though to cut off the invader.
But the fog will not be stopped. It breaks over the crest and into the fields. It will have its way.
The town is cut off from the fields by a wall of white now.
The fog is closing in.
It will invade the town, noiselessly covering the streets, obscuring the sky, muting all sounds.
Then it will leave, as quietly as it came.
Nothing will seem amiss; it will leave nary a trace.
Only those who saw it will know it was there at all.
The town will return to its normal existence.
The fields will go on living in peace until the next time the fog is on the prowl.


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