Pea-Souper, it is such a wonderful,
phrase,
To describe a fog that somehow conveys,
A frisson of fear, of impending doom,
Of cold and damp, of Victorian gloom.
The air is chill and full of vapour,
You look at objects as if through tracing paper.
It’s like donning a thick, wooly winter glove,
The landscape feels like it’s slipped with a subtle shove,
It’s as if the world is at one remove,
And it’s silent and dead and needs to prove
That there is life underneath that gossamer smoke,
That objects will emerge from under that cloak.
That the sun needs to burst through the dulling haze,
And tarnish the world with a colourful glaze.

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