High tide and low mist

There was such strange light in the harbour today that I got off the bus before reaching town in order to grab a better look. The water had a still, milky translucence and the bay was shrouded in haze - although not, I hope, the polluted murk that's been affecting the east coast.

The Greek poet C.P.Cafavy wrote a poem that could apply to any small coastal settlement where lost souls might find their final anchorage.
Here's a version by John Ash.

He arrived in this small Syrian harbour
With plans to take up the trade in incense,
But during the voyage he had fallen ill,
And, almost as soon as he was brought ashore,
He died. We buried him. It was the poorest burial.
We knew his name was Emes and that he was young.
That was all. Just before dying, he muttered
Something about "home" and "parents",
But who they might be no one knew, nor which corner
Of this immense, Hellenic world of ours
He could call home, and perhaps it is better so:
Although he lies buried in this insignificant
Harbour-town, his parents will never learn of it,
And can live on the hope that one day he'll return.

(In a churchyard a few miles away there is this memorial to a nameless victim of the sea.)