Harbor Morning

The morning air stirred off the hillside's brow
Then breezes turned around and skies changed too;
Where there was azure blue is pale gray now
And heavy with the scent of sea anew.
Now there's the foghorn's distant lazy groan
Which seems to echo, "change" and "change" and "change"
Alike a sleeper's dreaming, breathing tone
That rolls across the foggy harbor's range.
Besides the weather, turning is the tide
so shrimpboats swing about to tug and pull
Against their mooring ropes and gulls, no pride,
Soar seeking refuse by the bucketful.
 The bell buoys toll aloud the last farewells
 To seamen setting course cross ocean swells.