A dew-drop of thought spred its ficiton on the fog.
A half-conceived vision fought to stand unstrained
With its feet fixed over the grey slippery froth.
Hands caught the reins of rain while something sat
Upon the rolling straddle of the sea's silvery cloth.
The scene was set, conceivable enough,
Constructed with concrete conjuring words, or ought,
Though now considering this after-thought
It seems the scene dissolves and what's left of it
Is the gleam of watery words and hiss of slithering mock.
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