{ Frank Dullaghan: Freezing Fog. }

[delga]

Freezing Fog
by Frank Dullaghan

As I move, the space about me
re-shapes itself:

buildings resolving into solidity,
quiet people moving into and out of focus.

Nothing is certain or fixed.
Only the map in my head keeps me straight.

I feel old. Mid-morning. February.
I’m starting on a three-hour journey to a late shift.

My tall son is already at college.
He will be trying to follow patterns of instruction,

trying to focus as his mind whitens.
Yesterday he stared at the wall –

two hours unplugged from the world.
His doctor says he needs structure,

that the drugs will kick in in a few weeks.
For now, what’s real keeps unpeeling.

He sleeps a lot. Outside my carriage window
the landscape lengthens, the sky lifts.

Two Indian boys sit next to me.
I listen to the music of their talk.

It seems a long time before I realise
they are speaking in English.