Early morning fog, a hint of sun
flirts, causing it to blush like young
girl's cheeks.

The canoe glides smoothly as my
paddle dips, pulls, rises,
dribbling water into circles,
wounding the mirrored surface
slightly. No one follows the cut
path. Waters move aside and
close again.

Fog banks hover over thirty
fathoms lying tame now, hiding
sand and rock and ship's hulls
from a more tempestuous time.
There is a sense of something
underneath the surface waiting,
something lurking out of sight.

Far off hear the bony bells,
marking off the channel to the
east, calling worshippers to
matins. Everything inspires
awe. Then he comes walking
through the morning fog.