Fog Over Morecambe Bay


The engines splutter as we plough a breathless ocean turned to milk.
The prow splits, noiseless, through the waves, a stone-sharp knife-edge slicing silk.
The fog rolls out, obliquely flattened. In its heavy, straining wake
It cuts the world off, slowly washing down the banks of Morecambe Bay.
First the ghosts of grey fells vanish, white tooth buildings lost to sight.
Then the mist turns into thick walls, just one room built out of light,
Bouncing back the toneless bells and shrieks from buoys on either side
As though the channel’s climbed aboard the boat. But now the dirge has died.
There’s just the constant lighthouse blinking, painting rainbows round the mast,
And the pencilled harbour waking in the half-light. Home at last.

18 responses to “Fog Over Morecambe Bay

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