SCRYING IN THE MIST

This fog, more tangible
than retinal codes, or a pulse along a nerve
more solid than an invert image
fashioned on a cortical screen,
advises stealth.

The way ahead, once clear,
escapes, dissipates amid the soft grey particles.
Wayside landmarks wear an air of strangeness
and no beacon points the way.
Ahead a soot-stained map of misty calligraphy
wrought by an unfamiliar hand.

This fog's breath has frosted the sheen
of the scrying glass,
wagged a warning finger at the travelling man,
laid a masking veil across the path.

There is no ceremony for this:
no rite of passage;
no footprint to guide the way.
It is    unbeknown,
          unremembered,
          unforeseen.

The wind is dead, the frost thick in the air
and the nerves uncertain:
a longing for sweet sleep.
The night is soundless,
though the breeze begins to stir.

          Unforeseen, then:
the forebrain functions well;
nerves rhythmically vibrate and generate
an annulus of incandescent light
before the eyes;
senses fine-tuned, alert.

          Unremembered:
only the wind's low wail -
sibilance, a whistle through teeth;
a blade of cold breath cuts clean.
Yes, the wind fluting eerie and musical
as the night creeps on.

          Unbeknown:
the nerve-coils untwist,
and the poisons in the blood
slowly drain away.

The way ahead is wearisome,
the senses strained,
the movements taut and tentative and slow.
But move we must, there's no way back,
and forward we must go.

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Cover picture:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/7911705@N07/2211142208/