The Fog of Farronbrook - by Lena


With fall comes fog,
this morning faster than before,
that wet monstrous maw of Farronbrook
sucking in and out
in great greedy breaths,
dippling all in its path,
dead grass,
old garden kale,
my lashes,
as I stand in my pajamas
cursing the sop and rot
of this place that is not
Wildlight Island,
the delicate song of summer.