Thursday, August 22, 2013


The rain is chucked back up and
as it smashes onto the water.
Pins dart up, grey-on-grey,
the peninsula has disappeared.
A foghorn,
a crow caw,
the air is brine.
The clouded fret,
a moving mass,
it creeps and smothers and
folds rain out over it all.
Wet on wet,
the estuary swells and foams,
pocked with drops and
The air is brine;
a chimney looms out of the fog.
A ship slices by, eyes
blinking yellow light.
Sudden calm,
a degree cooler.
It starts to clear.