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Fog

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, April 1932

Long ghostly fingers of the dripping mist

Grope silently among the ships that list

To port and starboard along lonely piers

Whose boards know sodden taste of salty tears.

From bow to keel there is the constant sound

Of water—water—water all around

Of tides that ebb and flow the long night through,

And clinging veils of mist that hide the blue.

A tearful lot is that of ships men tie

’Longside some crumbling wharf where shadows lie

Waiting for measured tread on decks that seem

The pathway of old mariners who dream.

Somewhere in sand lots, looking out to sea

And counting ships in clouds that quickly flee

A gale—ah, ships that wait beside old piers;

You have the wind—the ancient tide of years

And fog that mourns the watered graves of them

While winds all chant a sobbing requiem

In mourning as a grayish phantom hull

Drifts by, her only passenger a gull.