Fog and bridges 1

A drive across the Lion’s Gate in fog

a glance in passing at this lion, formed of granite

Thick-carved layers of stony mane

ambush a youthful memory:

Strolling in the park with two girl friends,

I mounted this stone animal, sat giggling astride his back,

posed for a picture.

A policeman on his motorcycle stopped

Not to photograph us, but to ask us

politely to get down and not distract the motorists on the narrow suspension bridge.

As I ascend that bridge today,

fog engulfs me.

Where the high suspension towers should rise,

There's only the bridge deck and fog.

Where the soaring cables should rise,

I see only fog.

Disorienting fear invades my belly.

Shapes that should be there are no more than conspicuous absences.

High up in the air,

suspended in nothing,

I quail at fog.

Photo by sonson 1. Lion's Gate