The red rail ran rigid around the lighthouse deck.
Below, the sea flurried fierce rocks.
I saw a lone tree, storm survivor, stand severe,
its burnt trunk blackened against the foam.
The guide had warned the group
of danger near the edge,
each adult was to hold the hand of a child.
My son’s grip was a gull’s, longing to fly.
We braced against the cold.
The transparent panes of the huge lamp,
frail-layered in the cloudy light,
belied its powerful night-time pulse,
speaking to ships in the dark.
