Ground Clouds and Fish Smaze

A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village, an ear clapping, full sailed, fog moors itself to the rooftops, then hides all in a breezeless blear. Rheumy eyes peep out from nets, damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes. Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors battle the splatter and spray, dabbing at mildewed shelves, warding away slopping waders and salty puddles. On the sightless sea far beyond the shore and shingle, fog horns are lowing like lost cattle. Later, misty reeks will be scoured from groggy docks, hauling hands will rope together the tide-tossed salvage by and by, squeaky boots may trudge to taprooms where codgers and callow alike can be well oiled and duly quenched.