I would like to make you a present of fog.
This fog, surrounding us now.
It makes our world small, hiding everything further than arm’s length,
yet things disappear in it so softly and smoothly –
there is no possible way to define the border,
there is no horizon,
there is no end.
It is vague and cosy – a down-soft infinity.
Join me.
I would like to make you a present of this light,
a sudden splash of colour in the fog,
defining the piercing beauty of a tree-branch,
its intricate form alone in a sea of shapelessness –
the sudden joy of discovery.
Gasp with me.
I would like to make you a present of my world,
of all that I learned over the years,
patiently collecting shapes and colours,
thoughts and feelings,
moulding them together,
creating something unique and precious.
Look at me.
But you can only have your gift returned so many times
before you finally realise that this person REALLY doesn’t want a silver toast rack.
And that a silver toast rack is all that you have to give.
The fog condenses into tears on my cheeks
and evaporates in the bright sunlight.
