October 2020
Neil Creighton
neil.creighton@bigpond.com
Author's Note: For the last several months Morteza has been in the city of his birth, a place from which, as a young man, he fled in fear of his life and to which he annually returns and uses his medical skills to repair the many broken bodies from a long and terrible war. September found him about to return to the city of his refuge. He was meditative, peaceful, connected, feeing that he had done what he could and must be satisfied with that. In October we reach Part 2 of this three part narrative. Morteza is “home” but his city seems barely recognizable. There are many voices to be heard but in October we only hear that of Morteza.

Part 2. Voices in the Fog.

A New King
 
The axis of Morteza’s world shifted.
Old verities chaotically flew 
into fog incomprehensibly blank, 
Had gravity no power to hold?
Could eyes no longer discern direction?
The new king was a charlatan 
beating at the hollow chest 
of his own vast emptiness, 
a low grade thief who stuffed  
the crown jewels into his pocket,  
then peacock-strutted, flaunting 
them in pride of ownership. 

Morteza had fled oppression.
This city had given him freedom,
conferred on him honor and wealth, 
enabled him to help others, 
gave him hope for the future 
and belief in the rule of law. 
He lay awake, filled with grief. 
He feared the blank emptiness of fog
winding through the streets, 
covering the city, blanketing 
even the unseen landscape
stretching ominously beyond the walls.

fog
 
descended 
thick
impenetrable

hiding 
mountain
trees
paths
the poor 
the dispossessed 

and Morteza 
groping
despairing
longing for light

imagining
of the clarity 
of the sun

yearned 
for a glimpse
of the distant 
mountain’s
foothills 

ached 
for the low slung 
single star 
shining white 
beside 
a sliver moon. 


The Best We Can Do?

The only sound was the flat slap 
of waves rhythmically rising 
to meet the stone harbor wall. 
Impossibly large luxury launches, 
once glistening white in sparkling blue, 
were now looming shadows.
Fog had swallowed them and their owners, 
swallowed too their brittle white smiles,  
leaving only clink of crystal
and the rank stench of privilege.
 
Into Morteza’s mind came sun and heat, 
the vulnerable chug and cough 
of an ancient diesel motor
powering an overcrowded, flimsy boat 
filled with desperation, hope and fear.
He felt again the salt-laden clothes, 
saw the gathering sea, the looming swell,
heard the creaking of the water-filling vessel.

Then, despite the grey of the fog, 
flared a vision of streets aflame, 
angry mobs rampaging, 
tear gas clouds, baton charges, 
justice, fallen, trampled,  
lying bloodied in the streets. 
He groped blindly then stumbled. 
He stared into the blankness. 
His heart beat hard. 
Fog covered the brightness 
that long ago filled him with hope 
and guided him through the night.
©2020 Neil Creighton
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