Morning Mist at Akaroa

The winter sun, low in the sky,

Glinted on the cobalt bay.
Morning mist lay thick,
Blanketing the far shores,
Shrouding the summer sailboats
In a mantle of pale winter white.
Stark spars thrust upwards
From darker hulls—ethereal shadows.

From the old wooden boathouse

A graying pier stretches an arm,
Straining to catch any rays of warmth.
At its far end, huddled against the blue chill,
A solitary sentinel watches. . .waiting. . .