Fog and bridges 3

3. Ghost Ships

Lonsdale in autumn darkness.
Seen through wispy moving fog
this well-known street feels unfamiliar.
Turning at the bottom, I pass warehouses
dark now, deserted at this time of evening.
From the dry dock, bones of a ghostly ship
reveal themselves in outline through the mist.
My heart lurches.

Round the curve
the road runs right along the railway tracks.
There is no traffic.
In eerie silence I slip past the gleaming chain
of looming tankers, all the same.
Soaring up, silo on silo faintly lit by smudgy yellow light,
grain elevators vanish in the fog.
Where is the sky?

Beside me sudden clanging of a bell.
Adrenalin slams my head;
as crisscross lights flash red.

Only the railroad signal!
My brakes engage; only semi-visible
the hulking train jolts by.

Photo: Fog moves in, by Chris Hays