Wreathing in white and not a sound
Except the intermittent blaring horn
Damp and dank, hiding all
Visibility nil, humidity high
Light increases from the dawn
A wading bird's warbling call
The steady chugging of an engine
But not a thing in sight
The eastern horizon turns golden
The sun arises, and in scorn
rips a tear in the pale white blanket
showing a nearby hillside, part exposed
Slowly, steadily the tears increase
As familiar landmarks reappear
A ship closing in to dock
The quayside with its bollards too
Last to reemerge for distance
The monument on the hilltop yonder
Whilst the lighthouse in bemusement
Watches over the dissipating cloud
Quickly now the wisps disperse
Hiding in the moorland's folds
But even there the sun will come
Victorious into a golden day
Very pretty.
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