THE FOG
PART ONE
The trees swayed a warning, and again the echo
Resounded and started to grow to a
crescendo.
"Have you seen the emerald eyed beauty,
oh hear!
I am looking for her, oh, is that she coming
near?"
In the forest the sad echo of his voice ricocheted.
Blood curdling screams rent the air, as the
sky greyed.
Everything appeared eerie in the semi lurid
gloom
As the branches of the spectral trees went
boom, boom.
Was the desolate boy only a fevered mind’s creation?
A frenzied dream, a figment of my
imagination?
Just a spark of madness in the embers of the
night?
An owl hooted, a bat took a sudden and
frantic flight.
The fireflies stopped flitting, the birds
their trilling.
The tension was killing, the screams blood
chilling.
Cold radiated from the earth, gone was the
mirth.
The air smelt of malevolence and of painful
dearth.
The trees went mute, the forest went back to sleep.
Then rippling laughter resounded in the
forest deep.
As two figures emerged from behind the
trees
And broke into dance, playfully sang the
breeze.
Hand in hand by the river bank they danced.
From behind the pine tree, I watched
entranced.
The moon was like a seraph, sublime and
serene.
Stars twinkled and winked
like voyeurs keen.
A sudden gale hit them with malevolent ingenuity,
Spitting airy expletives and curses with
impunity.
Soon the trees were in its tempestuous
embrace,
The gale like a man armed with a sinister
mace.
Like a torrent of abuses, wrathfully it hit and slashed
In anger great, against the boulders loudly
it crashed.
The trees made jerky movements, their balance
to regain.
The earth writhed and shook as though
in absolute pain.
Were they clippings from a film dreadfully
archaic
Where everything was a charade, a fantastical
fake?
"It is not easy to be green when there
is plunder.
Your reckless behavior is tearing us
asunder.”
The weeping willow groaned, looking utterly forlorn.
"With this rampant destruction, we will
soon be gone.
And the only green will be the monster
green eyed."
The poplar looked sadly at its brethren and
sighed.
Asked the pine, “O, wise human, what is our fault
That we are at the receiving end of your
assault?"
Into the whine of the trees now poured an
echo.
“Pray, can no one tell me what I want to
know?”
The trees whispered, swinging their manes sadly.
A squirrel stood on its haunches, squinting
madly.
“Her eyes were resoundingly blue, like a
clear sky.”
Through the veins of the forest there came
this cry.
Arm of the Seine near Giverny in the Fog -- Claude Monet
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