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.
30/5/2021