Cold, grey harbour.
Light slips
eerily through phantom mists.
Day or night,
still the same.
The old dock sits,
boats lull on the waves
and out of
the slate-grey nowhere
a sale whips.
Perhaps come unlashed
from its place on the mast,
but it would be so easy
with the ocean vast,
to conjure up a monster,
to fill the story’s gaps.
Instead, we have our past
and the fog of time,
out of which comes
never anything
that we first cast.
Those rocky crags
that protect the harbour,
also trap the fog
and make it thick,
so thick,
it blocks out the sky
and makes the water inky black.
We are not so quick
to sail off into the mists.
No tricks,
there is only
the desire to come back.
We can barely see our hand
in front of us,
so why
do we desire
to venture out,
long past our day’s require?
Into nowhere;
the drawing out
of a victim to their fate.
The ocean waits,
like time;
it has forever
to take us in.
One step at a time
down that old dock
to where the boatman waits
to take us
through the fog
to some other place.
Away,
a new day,
a new night;
that eternal mist twilight.
Grey escape;
somewhere out there,
beyond the place
where the waves break.
HG – 2018
