Poet of Light

The beacon skims

the waves

but no ships sail

this hour of night

 

A false dawn lights

the horizon, and

obsidian skies blush pale

as the stars shine

their last

 

My small lantern

battles

what shadows it can tame.

The rest wait their turn

 

The mulled wine

warms the bones

and softens the edges

of harsh memories

 

My breathing,

the scratch of the pen,

the sizzling pop of an oil bubble

sound all the louder

at this hour

 

Far below,

waves whisper

susurrations

of sighs

 

The keepers of

the past

watch from

realms unseen,

but whether in

approval or censure,

I can’t tell.

 

Either way,

I’m undone.

 

A red gold band

of light

sears the seam of

the horizon

 

I finish the wine.

I finish the page,

and close my eyes

to the sweet brightness

 

And once more

the walls crumble

to ruin,

the light

dies,

and I fade

like the names

of lovers

drawn in the sand

before high tide.