Dawn

by Alan Catlin

We walk on black rock,
63+
in dense, gray fog.

Walking, our feet seek
purchase, to balance, as
they slide on tide-exposed
moss wrapped about
clotted weeds.

Pausing, we listen to
the lowing tide, the waves
receding.

See the fog
enveloping the clay,
the eroding cliffs.

I stand, alone, on a rock,
feeling as if I am becoming
one with the mist and
the fog and the waves.

From a widow’s walk
in my mind, my wife
watches the sun rising
from the sea without me.