Is sunlight's absence cause for your decampment?
Can dim Presidio moors not also stage great glories?
Summer's seekers lust for their surfeit of relaxation
As many follow fashion to flee our summer gloom
How does fog's soothing melancholy not ever entice
You from your quest for searing sunnier climes?
Mist sprinkles buds along the thirsty headlands
And embraces our empty battlements
Faithful sentries still listening above the fog horns
Resolute in duties begun eighty cold summers ago.
I continue my tryst with wintery summers
Which offer antidote to an aversion to clouds.
This enclave of shifting shrouded winds
Howling across Steinbeck's scrubland
Where merchant sailors finally find some rest
Beside a plaque placed to eschew our forgetting
Above the sea they tended for the good of nations
Like me, they listen for the wind that bears us home.