Foggy Road Poem by Bill Galvin

Driving Highway 1 in New Brunswick
South past the sainted towns
Of Martin, John, Andrew, then, Stephen,
And finally to cross the border River St. Croix.
Running through the Caledonia Highlands,
Inland, but close by the Bay of Fundy shoreline.

All along the way, a soupy fog hangs thick,
And focuses the driver’s eye
To the clouded tunnel of the road ahead,
With only eight or so dashed lines in view,
Keeping the tires between them
And the solid white on the right is the goal.

Got the old truck fog lights replaced
For this trip up the Maine and Maritime coast,
Hoping to catch some famous Down East fog;
Maybe get socked in, get to feel like a ghost.
Up till now, didn’t catch it… I thought I mist.
(Was waiting to use that pun somewhere)
Really, I wanted my fog to be a backdrop
At a picturesque harbor town, not while driving.

So, it’s odd not to have a far away view.
The rock cuts come beside you suddenly;
The top-most peaks of balsam and spruce
Poke up from river valleys you can’t see;
And you cannot tell when any hill will end.

Hey, am I the only one on this drive?
Then, a braver (?) local approaches from behind,
And passes on the left; well, I know I’m not alone.

Black crows stand out in the whiteness,
And cruise their way quite confidently.

Crossing into Maine, the air clears,
And clammers can be seen bending, raking,
And mucking through the low-tide mud.

There is a certain simplicity to be found
In foggy surroundings.
There’s the opportunity
To be here in the now,
And enjoy the contemplative, inward view.

9-10-2015 (Bar Harbor, Maine)