Lighthouse unlit; the sails unset;
the blue – bright – ‘breast the morning;
the dog’s bark ricochets in waves
that break ‘gainst seagull’s calling;
pigeon pecks the mossied cracks; a
gull, its young coat grey,
steps closer t’ward the quay’s stone edge;
piercing the clouds – the rays
of flick’ring flame, eight minutes old,
that danced ‘cross th’frozen void
to singe the damaged atmosphere
‘n heat the earth; now poised’s
a man of many sun-led, searching
cycles ‘pon a post;
the clouds relent their risen rain;
th’wake of a narrow boat
dances upon, across, ‘n through
the river’s cold expanse
to die of life’s momentum lost;
another pigeon lands…
william altoft 