I can see it coming. Rolling silently over the house roofs and tree tops from the south, where the sea lies, where the ocean roars. Slowly, gradually, the light grows dim, eerie, the sun’s rays weaker, unable to penetrate the gloom. Trees vanish, leaving mere ghostly outlines.
Sounds become muffled but, at the same time, strangely amplified. Voices echo, seem nearby yet, in reality, are hundreds of metres distant. Footsteps tap, tap, tap. Spectral figures appear, pass quickly by, disappear once more. Birds fall silent as if afraid to pierce the silence with their squawks, tweets, chirps.
Fog is everywhere, blanketing the lake, flowing along the brook, shrouding buildings, hovering over bushes, making branches droop, making hair frizz. Creeping tendrils wind their way through tree branches, wrap themselves around park benches, slither between railings. Fog makes throats choke and chests heave, and seeps into old bones.
On Roath Lake, the light-less lighthouse needs a light today and a horn to warn.