Fog and Shale

A mackerel sky fillets the village then hides it in a breezeless blear. Heads poke out of net drapes sniff and fish behind trawling curtains. Shopkeepers brace for wet dog splatter and spray for slopping boots and salty puddles. On the sightless sea far beyond the shore and shingle, lost fog horns are lowing deep like colicky cattle. Later, misty reeks will be scoured from groggy docks. Hauling hands will rope together tide-tossed tubs, then tired feet trudge to taprooms where the brackish parts of codgers and young alike can be oiled and quenched.