The Salt Coast Sages Maine Poets

                                                                                 Fog Trip

                                                      He stood alone
                                                      in his old dory,
                                                      alone in thick fog
                                                      out of sight of land.
                                                      Wrapped in cold and dampness
                                                      he felt strangely at ease.
                                                      He shipped his oars,
                                                      stood feeling the gentle
                                                      rise and fall of the swells,
                                                      listened, listened
                                                      for what he couldn't see.
                                                      At first there was nothing.
                                                      He felt suspended
                                                      in a grey, wet void -
                                                      not even a bright spot
                                                      for locating the sun.
                                                      Briefly disoriented,
                                                      he sat down on the cold,
                                                      damp middle thwart.
                                                      The slight shock
                                                      renewed his senses,
                                                      he heard the cries of terns.
                                                      Green Ledge, he thought,
                                                      way off ahead.
                                                      Barely audible to port
                                                      sounded the slap and splash
                                                      of a wave on ledge.
                                                      Point of Main. I'm not
                                                      so far out as I thought.
                                                      He stood, leaned right,
                                                      cupped hands behind ears,
                                                      listened hard again.
                                                      A crow's caw, faint rush
                                                      and hiss of wave on sand,
                                                      Hickey Island, alright.
                                                      He straightened, stood
                                                      queitly for long minutes,
                                                      unshipped the oars,
                                                      reversed the dory's course,
                                                      rowed with strong,
                                                      but intermittent strokes
                                                      contentedly back
                                                      to the pier from which
                                                      he'd come.