when the fog rolls in on the rocky shores
along Nova Scotia’s barren beach of sand
it’s thick like old cold pea soup
eerie when you can’t even see your hand
the lighthouses scream to stay away
to ships old Neptune wants to claim
unseen sea birds ghostly spirits
their haunting voices sound insane
lights on houses haloed yellow
where most people hide inside
wood fires crackle, snap and pop
it’s the safest place to hide
winds howl down from way up north
only stir the foggy soup around
god help the man lost in the woods
no way home will be found
mariners walk their quarter decks
radar blips are watched with hope
in search of land in the misty lost
to the creaking of wood and rope
aye ‘tis a foggy night on the Atlantic coast
where the ghosts of our ancestors dwell
like funeral shroud it steals the day,
as all time seems to stand still
Ty, Dani
Btw, I like your bio pic too ;)
could feel the chill and here the waves
like your bio pic as well,
enjoy these kinds of writes!!!!
Spectacular poetry dear friend. You are so gifted and I marvel at your ability to build vivid images with original expression. This is awe inspiring.
Chanti
Take care,
Sherry
Fog has that ability to muffle and distort sound and scene. We have fog, very thick, dangerous fog often (I live on the Gulf coast of Florida) during the winters. I like playing in the fog, especially on a bright, full moon night. Try it sometime. Golf courses usually have wonderful THICK patches of fog and plenty of space to run around and laugh.
I truly relished THE FUNERAL SHROUD OF ATLANTIC FOG.
Thank you for your constant support of my work. We are kindred spirits my dear man.