Mist drifted in on the west coast,
Haar settled in pockets the east,
From the north, a cold wind is blowing,
Heading south, uninvited from feast,
Through the haze that some see only slightly
Are the kent well, the lay of the land,
Known by the natives, e’en blindfold,
Accept or reject out of hand.
Enfranchise the right of all passage,
Not by whip nor by tactics, nor siege,
Heged no more as the sheep in the fiefdom,
Fog lifting, clear vision, the pledge.
Chill factors accounted, storm brewing,
Lamps lit and blinking onshore,
Winds rising, temperatures with them,
And voices of never, no more.
From every direction prevailing,
Scourge of the wrong of the right,
By the left, quell extreme, centripetal,
Cyclone of justice to fight.
Weather forecasting the future
Where shelter’d dominion lies,
Disbelieve the official meterological,
Look to the signs in the skies.