Men look like flat figures cut out of black paper,

Everything two-dimensional, in the misty vapour,

Carts, motor-cars, omnibuses are just shadows,

Everyone noses their way like blind bats in meadows.

The fog has a flavour, many flavours in all,

At Marble Arch it’s melon, in Ludgate it’s coal,

Fog grips your throat and makes your eyes damp,

Nothing is clear not even the lamp.

Children love it and press their small faces,

Against windows, staring hard, recognising places,

Lights are like unripe oranges going by,

The fog covers all London the earth and the sky.