180: Haar

'a cold sea fog on the east coast of England or Scotland'

These days the fog washes in between the cracked buildings

before the first hours of dawn drag themselves over the eastern horizon.

It is dense, cloudy, pressing against our ears and our eyes

and every sound rings too loud.

We walk softly, unwilling

to let the heels of our winter boots disturb the silence

of cars creeping by and strangers squinting

to see the green man across the crossing.

A woman's laughter lashes through

like the black keys on a grand piano

in descending order in an empty manor.

Even going to the shops is a trial

when outlines emerge

like shadows at a two-foot distance

and for all we know it might be ourselves,

reflected in the frozen droplets of North Sea air and smoke,

at a two-foot distance from a wall,

but then we see the headlights of a one-eyed vehicle, a car

by the sound of it, snake past beside us, the engine rattling

like a warning trill.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.