The Fog Rolling In by CL Gingerich

The deep sea shone in paling light
And the fog made way towards the shore.
The tide was low, showing the bowels of its bedrock,
As the thick mist reached ever on.

A chill dampened the air, clawing at the sky.
And the house on the cliff shuddered off its cold fingers.
The fog was rolling in, ever closer, ever on.
The fog was creeping past the sea
Towards the house on the cliff.

The young voices of children echoed within the house,
But the fog was unnoticed, unimportant to them.
Few birds chirped and the leaves blew in the heavy air.
Guitar chords pressed through the cold from the house on the cliff.
The man sat upon his porch swing, strumming.

The fog was rolling in.

But it did not matter.
Because the house on the cliff was warm within,
Uncaring of the mist without.