THE MORNING FOG
On foggy morns, deep foghorns warn,
Of perils at the coast,
They chant their two-tone mantra
In mournful, husky notes,
It is not a way to wake from sleep,
Nor a way to face the day,
The dirge-like song within one's ear,
May fade, but will not go away.
The air, a thick, white substance,
Impenetrable by eye,
Numbing men's insides.
Pathetic harbor lights,
Lone pinpoints scattered 'round,
Meaningless and wasteful,
Not worth the shot to take them down.
Pelicans and seagulls,
Picking, pecking at the pier,
The atmosphere to clear.
Black hulks of bobbing ships,
Prisoners at the dock,
Threatening and sinister,
Their tethers, strained and taut.
Something surreal about a fog,
Old haunts are strangely veiled,
And ghostly souls are said to dance
At the foghorn's eerie wails.
Sometimes depressing - yet refreshing,
If one's inside a heated room,
Where a simple light switch on a wall,
Will quite dispel the murky gloom.
Hot coffee and a woolen scarf
Good ammunition in a fog,
Though along with them, my anxious friend,
I'd suggest a prayer to God.