Vessel Roger Blough in Fog
On My Mother's Birthday
Sitting on a glider…
Sitting on a glider in Marine City,
we fell asleep;
a cold front
inserted itself into a hot summer day
bringing rain and fog;
freighters surprised at noon
sounded ten inch steam whistles’ alarm
waking glider children.
the pilot houses floated
above the now obscure and fog-grey hulls
as if disembodied
and chased by the surprised
smoke stack, freed from the now invisible stern;
timelessness, summer, youth!
the photo is the closest I could come to describing the actual events. The pilot houses back then were taller and stood higher relative to the hull, and the fog totally obscured the hull, which in the picture above is slightly visible as a black line between the stern and the bow.
I am early with the poem, and early for the birthday.