The Fog

In the yard of weeping,
A wooden block lay.
Soft rains of salt and water,
Jump swiftly down each each face.
A sadness looms in
Sobs and blues.
It drifts and sways,
The priest now prays.
Over his box and to the stones,
The Fog rolls over his tired bones.
The blackened clothes
Get up and leave;
The dirt mounds up, as
Wind rush the trees.
He lay in peace.
They stay not in gladness,
For the Fog rolls in
And delivers great sadness.