The fog is lifting;
I can see the blues beginning to lighten up,
feel the brush of cool damp across my lashes,
blowing away the gray,
and though I can't detect that distant shore
or see how close it is --
and I know it is --
the grass at hand is greener now,
the driftwood no longer looms --
bones in a dark graveyard --
but glows with wooden hues.
The sand squelches underfoot,
less audible now above the foghorn's drone
as the clatter of gulls across the way lightens the air;
senses, heightened in the gloom,
subside to whispers, sifting through remembered pains
like pages of a book,
fluttering to rest.
* * *
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