Fog People

There’s some that calls it fog, let them, I say.

There’s some that calls it rolling devils, they’re close.

There’s some, like me, who sit by the shore

Late in the evening, with the sun but a memory

And watch the shadow selves of centuries past,

Slither down from the graveyard on the hill behind us.

And get busy at the work of hauling out the catch

From the dancing grey boats on the slippery water

And spread it row on row on the flakes to dry.

We watch them swirl and spin and shift,

The dog and me, and growl if they get too close.