Foggy

In the hush of early morning,
A silver veil descends,
Foggy streets lie mute and dreaming,
Where lamplight softly bends.

The world becomes a watercolour,
Each contour blurred, indistinct,
Footsteps whisper on the cobbles,
As vapour drinks the faint.

Cars emerge like phantoms gliding,
Their headlights shy, diffused,
While distant church bells toll through mist,
Their tones confused, bemused.

Children chase the wavering silhouettes,
Laughing through the grey,
Their breath a fleeting plume that merges
With the fog’s soft sway.

Even the sparrows hush their song,
Perched on rusted rail,
Waiting for the sun to pierce the shroud,
And lift the pallid veil.

When at last the sun asserts,
A golden thread unfurls,
The fog retreats, a shy curtain,
Revealing waking worlds.

Yet in memory the foggy hours
Linger, cool and deep,
A quiet hush that drapes the city,
In secrets meant to keep.