The Fog on the Humber 

The ethereal sunsets and sunrises
Of Autumn are a distant memory
In this winter fog

Footpaths leading to the shoreline
And marshland bog
Are heavily waterlogged

Pine cones along Pine Walk
Drop down on walkers
As they walk

Fishermen cast out their rods
Into an elusive estuary 

A phantom whiteness
A blanket of blankness
A featureless canvass

A cantankerous
Chorus of clanging 
Clanking and clattering
From the rigging 
On yachts at the yacht club
Juts into the serenity

Slabs of granite boulders
Set inside steel scaffolded grill holders
Are as huge as can be
Bulky, bulging, brutal and bruised
The first line of defence, used
To protect the land from the 
Advancing embraces of the sea

The wooden shoreline fence
Is now a ladder
Hanging and holding

Onto the top
Of the clifftop drop 
And in between 

Tree roots can be seen
Exposed and unearthed
Dangling over dunes

Held together
In a final grip and grasp
By marron grass

Pillboxes, gloomy, grey and square
Are swallowed up by misty air

Wind turbine blades
Fade into fog as if not there
Deadly to birds in the air

The boggy marshland 
Is spiked with danger
Its dykes hidden by
Foggy weather
Long grasses
And straggly heather

A cauldron of clouds
Mist and gases
Wreaths of smoke
And smog intermingle
Rising out of chimney pots
From real fires
And wood burning stoves

The chug and whistle of a ghost train
Going through a tunnel echoes
At intervals from evening till night

But no train in sight
No passengers alight

Fog horns boom eerily on the horizon
From ships, cruise liners, oil tankers,
Steamers, trawlers, skiffs and boats

Haile Sands Fort floats 
Magically
Between sky, land and sea

The creek is a shapeshifting shoreline
Shifting shape all the time
With drifting sifting shifting sand
And currents channelling across the land

Warning to walkers
Who want to reach the forte
To check tide times
For danger signs
Or risk being caught

The foxes of the Fitties 
Slink out of sight
Searching for a bite
Scavenging for what they can find 
Left behind by humankind

Seagulls giant in size
Stalk the coast
Perching on posts
On the lookout for
For fish, chips and pies

A cormorant fans out its wings
Like a pre-historic creature from another land
On a bar of sand

Starlings put on a spell binding display 
Swirling and swelling and swaying
This way and that way
That way and this way

Before all descending at speed onto a garden table
To feed on fat balls of suet and seeds

Further up the shore, the Pleasure Island 
Theme Park is no more
Eerily quiet from its roaring heyday
Evacuated and abandoned to this day
Where only drones can roam
And foxes call home
Now a creepy graveyard 
For the remains of fairground machinery
Creeping into the greenery and the fog
Not worthy of the auction catalogue

The pier is
Lit up with a new lease of life
And a pearl necklace of luminescent lighting
Strung along on both sides
To peer far and wide at the ghostly sightings

Of trawlermen, men lost to sea
Never to return to shore

Mingling with mermaids
And mermaid folklore

Following the fog 
And signs on the ground 
Along the sea wall for a palm tree
Dazzling white and 72 feet tall
But it is nowhere to be found 
Nowhere to be seen
It is but a dream
A dream within a screen

'The Boy with the Leaking Boot'
Is standing in
A moat of sand
Where a battle has been fought
- and breached -
Between sea and land

The palmist’s office along the beach 
Is now closed and out of reach
But what could they foresee, I wonder?
What could they foretell?
And in this veil of fog as well

Will ‘The Masterplan’ happen at all?
Will it save the tourist economy from a downfall?

The smell of donuts from the donut stall
Is lingering, salty and sweet
And sticks of rocks from the rock stall
Remain a sticky treat

Cars chug, cough, grunt and shuffle along
Past the forlorn and foggy gothic folly

And the Victorian seafront stage of
Bannisters and balustrades
Stripped, chipped and peeling
Dripping gutters
Slipping from ceilings
The faded grandeur from another age
Whipped and battered by the crashing of waves

The fog is in transit
Lifting above the town
Drifting in its ghostly white gown
To manifest in another town

To be replaced by a bitter brutal bone-chilling wind 
And whirling swirling snowstorm known as
The Beast from the East'