Struggling light illuminates the fog. It is England of Keats, of Holmes and battle.
Poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city,
Over the pale grey tumbled towers,—
And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.
Along damp sinuous streets it crawls,
Curls like a dream among the motionless trees
And seems to freeze.
There is a crow outside, squawking and rasping as a gravelled baby’s cry.
Winter crow. Indigo Crow.
Indigo peeling from Silver mist, falling into a hauntingly beautiful day.
Day of ghosts in day.
Indigo Crow writes in Indigo ink on thick mist, too heavy to rise with the sun.
Days like this are inward days. Nestling days. Loving days. Create.
Images sun, telegraph