Fog over low tide

The mist, white, clinging,

unmoving still, holds the

landscape in its temporal

glue, and the sun is a pale

orb between the white fingers

and the blue spectrum of day.


Along the Bay, hidden in

the secrets of the eery mist,

nothing moves—not a creature,

nothing, not even a breeze.


And the water itself has gone

away as if into the mystic air

to join the mist’s white display,

as the patchy earth beneath

the moving waters is revealed

as promised land from some

long lost geological age.


Nothing rises, nothing falls: all

is held for this moment of neap

tidal force when the Bay is stripped

and the boats moored are ghostly

remnants marooned forever and

etched in their misty muddy grave.