Fog
Land swivels to the sea, part blind
a siren in a blanket half unclad
somewhere out there a horn bleats once
then once again lost in its sound as from
a dream the lighthouse finger sweeps
Trapped in our life spans of swerve and grope
when landmarks disappear we hold our breath
future invisible, all yesterdays now fog
we place our trust in something sensed ahead
A finger beckoning, a glowing lamp
a prayer, rungs underfoot, a wing, a thread
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© Johnmichael Simon
2010
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