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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