Like the ocean trying to
reclaim island, the fog
with the dense un-vision
of days at sea, makes each
of my Morris Minor wind-
shield wipers turn into
a compass arc to measure
the angles of rain. And
tawny lights, horns of
a playful Devonshire cow
attach, unattach to it, bump
it along as it blusters a road.
The smear of smoke from
a Bermuda-cedar-fragranced
chimney, and church bell sounds
at noon, dull as if wiped too
clean by this ragged bit
of weather, this foamy
curl of a wave, this cloud
with no sky to float in.