Rolling Mist/Disappearing Harbour – Mark Miller

Somewhere, farther out

from where I stand,

a boat thrums in the mist,

birds are staccato notes

to the bassoon of horns.

Lights from the Bridge-span

barely wash to me here,

in the shallows fish plash,

water sighs,

an anchored yacht knocks

at its mooring –

Shrouded in mist,

this Easter morning

the harbour-side path

is neither before me

nor after.