She watched him, standing lonesome in the fog:
A black-dressed figure, tall and dark, his face
A pallid blur behind a mask of mist.
Only his piercing eyes, framed by black hair,
Were clear. They watched her back, across the street.
Then he was gone, swallowed inside the fog.
And she fell, empty, missing years of life,
Her youth stolen away into that sea
Of white. And as the mists began to part,
Nothing remained of all those treasured years
Except a woman with a broken heart.
Wisen’d with loss, she rose and walked downstairs,
Meeting no eyes, showing no grief nor cares,
She walked into the street, mournful and bleak.
The works of Emerentia Gundersen 