I wonder if weather will ever marry
itself, again with the
fleet-footed souls of poetry
and bastards,
raked and tossed
about the malty brine

Whether,
it could,
if possible,
ever again,
re-engage the consciousness
of it's thoughtless past,

if only to reintroduce
briefly
itself again
a rekindled flame
in the enthusiasm
of strangers,

to pour itself out as
a dream upon the sheets
a thought upon the pillow,

leaving peculiar fogs to go
not unnoticed
amidst dredging clouds
of grey