Below is a poem set to the same style as Sara Teasdale’s Sunset: St. Louis
Hushed in the still gray fog of July rains
When humanity teems below in wild chatter
How many times have I seen my eastern mountain
Dream by her city.
High and still, shrouded in fathomless mist
That feints and flickers in a fickle ballet
Beneath muted sky she stands silent and strong
In lengthening shadows.
And when the light from the western sun breaks through
In soldered bars of gold and bronzed creation
Striking the clouds, my mountain still stands shining
In green and gold glory.
But I love my mountain most in rainy haze
When the gray rains come furtive and silent at dusk
And the lights blink on, gleaming through mist as my mountain strong
Dreams by her city.
Suddenly I plunged into it. Up and upward I climbed, deeper into the heart of the mist. The echo of the Chinese tourists’ jabber faded and nothing remained but the winding road, the forest and the fog. I was alone in the world. Curve after curve we went, the fickle fog wisping in the hollows and around the mossy tree trunks, now fleeing in fear, now advancing recklessly, reaching around my hands, my neck, my arms, chilling me with welcome numbness. We climbed up and then bounced down, my motorbike and I, through rutted tracks and mud, deeper and deeper into this alien world. When I stopped at the lookout to pull my camera from my backpack and turned off my bike, the silence hit me with a shout. Only the wind spoke its emptiness in the treetops, like a December breeze in a muffled midnight snow. Beneath me the fog rolled out in an fathomless ocean. I thrilled. I was alone in a world of fog. Alone.