Land ends in a wall of fog.
If you were told it was the
end of the universe, you
could not prove otherwise.
It glides up to the cliffside.
Stealing sight. Silent theft.
Ears ring. Seeking sounds.
Mind searches sensation.
Senses wet cotton dulled.
Solitude sweeps over one.
What would happen if one
stuck one’s arm inside the
fog? Would it expand into
infinity? Or disintegrate
into a lawless zone free of
mathematical certainty?
By B Gourley in nature, outdoors, poem, Poetry on August 20, 2017.
