Walking home in fog

I am set adrift
in a silent world,
a world with no straight lines,
with no sharp edges; nothing
clearly defined, no way easy to tell.
Black water drips from every branch,
fallen leaves cling to my shoes,
this is become a strange and wild place,
a place in which - perhaps - to encounter ghosts,
maybe sent from somewhere else,
maybe of my own creation.
The light from the street lamp on the corner
is reflected back upon itself, to become
a ball of brightness that illuminates only the circling mist;
none of the light reaches me,
all remains dark where my feet tread.
I am not one to be anxious;
I know my way home,
know these streets to be safe, and have
a calming measure of whisky within me -
and yet I am glad, I admit,
to see the shape of our house suddenly solidify before me,
to reach my front step, and get inside.