not even mist

…   …   … a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight …   …   …   …

Alfred Noyes’ poem “The Highwayman” was a favorite growing up in Cove School, and someone, one of the girls in our class or in a class ahead of us, had memorized it and came round more than once and recited it movingly, to our class and likely in other classrooms. Robert may remember who the girl was, I do not, but she gave me the poem for a lifetime.

Saturday morning, the sun is rising, moon setting, moisture hanging over the Bay such that, unusual, the Gulf is not clear beyond Shell Island, and even the downtown marina and shoreline stretching round to EBeachDrive and Cherry Street are hazy, unreal, maybe ethereal is the word. Not rain, not quite fog, not even mist, edging toward 7H. 75° 93%.

HNEC Supper Club tonight, gathering for sushi that I first gagged then quickly learned to love living in Japan fifty years ago. Sunday School tomorrow, more than half the class will be in Vestry meeting, but the remnant, those who love the Bible more than a business meeting, will see what we can make of a challenging gospel. I’ll have questions but no answers. Come! 

DThos+