Foggy Day

On a foggy day
It seems like it is night
The clouds seem awfully low
In Yarmouth county.
The ghosts of sailors creep,
They roam the harbor floor.
The flotsam rests atop
The ocean shore.

On Cape Forchu
The lighthouse sits
It scans the rocks,
The water,
And the ships.
The heavy air
It smells like fish
I lick my lips
And dangle my legs
Over a small cliff.
The seagulls cry,
Harbour seal pups
Black eyed and
Bobbing like buoys
Bark and
Disappear under the sea.

Standing now I
See a stone,
Hidden slightly
Under the sand.
I pick it up
Hold it tightly.
It is cold
I warm it and
Slip it in my pocket.

-Gregory Santos

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