FERRIES IN THE FOG

Local weather

FERRIES IN THE FOG

Deep bellows roll ashore,

Climb the hill and spill from

The Bowl that is our little town.

Their charts crossed

In deep of night,

Still lost to fog 

In morning light,

China clippers headed south,

Commerce stacked from deck to skies,

East/West ferries packed with souls,

All ships boom out warning cries,

For maritime fools are sure to be

Lost to port, who cannot see,

Without radar wandering,

Sailing on our Salish Sea.

No little cat feet here,

This  invasion from the sea

A thousand ninjas, maybe more,

A racing horde of cloud,

Blimey the milkman swore

The only warning heard aloud

As these chilling shrouds of fog

Climb the hill and spill from

The Bowl that is our little town.