Wintyr VF
Fog
everywhere.
Fog
up
the
river,
where
it
flows
among
green
aits
and
meadows;
fog
down
the
river,
where
it
rolls
defiled
among
the
tiers
of
shipping
and
the
waterside
pollutions
of
a
great
(and
dirty)
city.
Fog
on
the
Essex
marshes,
fog
on
the
Kentish
heights.
Fog
creeping
into
the
cabooses
of
collier-brigs;
fog
lying
out
on
the
yards
and
hovering
in
the
rigging
of
great
ships;
fog
drooping
on
the
gunwales
of
barges
and
small
boats.
Fog
in
the
eyes
and
throats
of
ancient
Greenwich
pensioners,
wheezing
by
the
firesides
of
their
wards;
fog
in
the
stem
and
bowl
of
the
afternoon
pipe
of
the
wrathful
skipper,
down
in
his
close
cabin;
fog
cruelly
pinching
the
toes
and
fingers
of
his
shivering
little
’prentice
boy
on
deck.
Chance
people
on
the
bridges
peeping
over
the
parapets
into
a
nether
sky
of
fog,
with
fog
all
round
them,
as
if
they
were
up
in
a
balloon
and
hanging
in
the
misty
clouds.