overlooking the eerie bay of mystery,
while stances on the quay
call on whatever powers that be
to stay corruptive powers of jelly;
tanker lights belie
navigator ignorance of the history,
mistaking flashes for go-get-em greens
and blind to the fog rolling in just now
to play the nightly winter blanket part.
Well here should go a reason for the bay
being saddled with the eerie stigma.
The truth is it began as one wee seed.
Not drastic as mustard but still quite small.
Fed sufficient water and adequate
light, plus tons of blasted tunes and big hugs,
turning what never was into a truth.