by Rebecca Meade
1985, Marblehead, MA
Each day I come here. Like breathing in and breathing out.
Some mornings my body aches to stay in bed.
The most satisfying event of my day now is
The white strength of that morning star,
A day such as this is rare.
Fog ... which precedes a storm, coming from the West,
Fishing boats are scurrying out
The Lighthouse remains visible, still,
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©R.Meade/1985
It's part of my life support system now.
But the Fort calls me up at five a.m.
Arriving here, at the Fort, to the Sun.
Half-lighting the spars inhabiting the harbour.
Glistening off the fresh paint of the hulls,
Still sleeping in the Sea.
The white Sun but an hour up ...
Forcing its rays through stubborn fog.
Rolling down among the boats.
Sneaking in like a cat, down the Harbour ... toward the Sun.
To get in their catch before the storm.
Minute by minute the Fog swallows up
The Yachts and skiffs which swiftly disappear
Behind the wall of moisture ...
One by one, they are gone from view.
But not for long.
Soon all of the beauty I crave each day
Will be invisible behind the Fog ...
But the Fog is warm, blowing down from the West,
And it feels good on my face,
As it blows in, like a comforting friend, to begin
My day, here at the Fort.