From this ridge
One sweep of the eye takes in
     the whole ocean,
     the town of Pacifica,
     the Farallones Islands,
     everything north and south.
(Or it would, but for the impenetrable white fog).

Left over from the War this observation bunker -
This head of weathered steel and concrete -
Stands, buried jowl-deep in rocky earth.

Long ago men welded shut his observation port.
So unseeing he crouches now abandoned in the soil,
Like the cyclops blinded by Odysseus.

Some afternoon, just as the fog lifts,
The hilltop will be shattered
As he pushes
     Up!
     Out!
     Free!
     Towering! once again above the coyote brush and sage.

Spilling soil and roots he will take one mighty step down to the high school,
He will cross in great strides
    the freeway and the Little League field,
    the self-storage complex and the mobile home park.

And grabbing the great Post Office flag pole for his staff,
He will wade out - he will grope his way -
Toward the Farallones,
Once again seeking
    Ships of wood
    Ships of steel.