Fogged.

The day arrives wearing a veil;
looking at me in a Havisham way.
It seems prudent to keep the foghorns sounding,
reminding us of that skeleton pier,
or the braver cocklers out earning their keep.
It feels the sort of day to chain-drink coffee,
hot and black,
life-giving.
To scramble thoughts of autumns past -
some good, some bad, but
none as fogged as this.
Aeroplanes are grounded.
Time feels still.
You watch a spider abseil from a diamond web,
glittered by the hands of fog,
on the tomato plants out front that gave up two weeks ago,
unseasonably,
living beyond their time.
The low horns blow, muted,
wrapped in cotton wool.
A chimney across the water reveals itself for barely ten seconds,
then shrouds itself again.
The day's veil holds fast.
Looking at me in a Havisham way.