A mass of clinging entrapment
graces the drifting storm
in a conspiracy of eeriness
on a cloudy day.
Frozen faces upturned to the waves;
voyagers threadbare
discussing ways and means;
bold an evil drifting on the tide,
It is rumoured in these parts
that gold-heavy galleons
vanish in the sun
when the mist clears.
.
.
By Donna Menadue
Rambling At The Bridge Head 