Lighthouse

La Jument, photo by Jean Guichard 

Before I open my eyes

I hear the call of waves,

the moan of timber.

I had forgotten there would be gulls,

the innocence of sea air

on my pillow.

It breathes differently, virginal;

never inhaled

by anyone else.

I consider drowning;

I don't cry out

or wave my arms.

There is no anchor;

sighs from my lips and nose

rhythm the stillness.

The keeper stirs;

tends the flame; ensures

a safe and pleasant passage. 

tk/January 2014


Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth ... looking a bit lighthouse keeper-ish ...

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The End

R.A.D. Stainforth moistens dry words on the page...

I am the last

walk with you,

watch gulls hover,

cry sharp in habitual air.

Fingers in my hair,

you crown me

lover of the end ―

all previous castles

now wave-washed clean.

Already grown full,

there is nowhere else to grow,

but with you ―

legs stretch out,

like pink-colored wings,

rearrange the passage

between.

tk/November 2012

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

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