Fog Sonnet Poem by David Welch

I drive through fog as it hovers near ground,
the mist clings to the shape of house and tree,
old farms and fields that I know are around
now seem shrouded in tempting mystery.

Rock walls and fences now just disappear,
silos are dull shapes looming overhead,
tall horses in the field are not so clear,
big cows like boulders in a grassy bed.

What else lays out there, my brain wants to know,
the primal part, beneath the conscious mind,
these common places where I often go,
now appear from another place and time.

A subtle joy, this grey veil of fog,
as if the country got a new paint job.