The lighthouse was swept away years ago. Tide and turbulence gnashing at the granite, jawing at the stone seat. Gulls, restless and pitching on drafts around the sentry.
And why were we there? To watch, no doubt. Watching the watcher.
The grass and thatch atop the small island overrun by the waters. Steel sea. Steel sky. The deep surging against this monolith. Wave by wave. Her lamp, the pulsing glow, exhaling in bursts of light between crests and crashes. The gasping brilliant beam, shot across a breaking expanse. An ember and glow, a patch of illumination fading below a boiling frothing tide.
For what it’s worth, she never sank. The sea simply took her.
And now, holding the same light, that same burning, we survey the same waters. The very darkness meaning to hold us under.
Those same dark waters often covering us. Roiling. Breakers slapping at bare skin. Faces streaked with salt and spray.
We lift our arms. Lamps high. Water rising. Mouths shut. Eyes ahead.
If faith is a flame still breathing in the damp heavy tempest of time,
If love is a beacon still jubilant amidst the surging sea of loss,
If trust is a triumph in the diaspora of the not yet,
Then the lamp is still burning, regardless of our depth.
We'll turn the ocean into fire and rend the world with its light, outshine the sun, burn the tide.