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.



a new day,

a new night;

that eternal mist twilight.

Grey escape;

somewhere out there,

beyond the place

where the waves break.


HG – 2018

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