(at station 351073)
Not a lighthouse really
But beacon on stilts
Standing at shallows
Between silted water
Of the wash and
Deeps of receding sea.
What climbs its
Black iron ladder,
Studies enamelled dials,
Is me --in
Thought and augury.
But what is this,
This mist in bloom
Where tide has
Percolated low?
I really can't say.
Is it you? Hello!
Happy birthday!
I love the haunting quality of this poem and its effect on my consciousness! It's somewhere between a waking dream and a conscious real dream. I'll read it again before I go to bed tonight.
ReplyDeleteBTW, when I Googled station 351073, I came up with some intriguing things on the web (your poem was number two) and on Google images as well....
Thanks Willie! The beacon is representive of devices used by vessels measuring mouths of inlets, and so is imaginary. I may have dreamt its number askew because I sometimes get my head caught between the wall and my bed. You ever wake up like that?
ReplyDeleteVery nice, Geo...all of them I could read over and over...
ReplyDeleteThanks, Annie B. Most kind.
ReplyDelete