The Fog Horn

From the cliffs at Land’s End,
where the sea is full of horses,
jaunty headlands of Marin slowly disappear.
The fog sloughs in on ancient feet;
The bay is wrapped in elephant’s Skin.
All is mute and gray, dormant, damp and dim,
when water droplets hang in air
like thick mouthfuls of unsaid prayers.
But clap the helm when the foghorn sounds,
It sounds a lusty blast and raises up
the shroud of day with hollowed,
hungry notes—away!

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