After the sea broke
the lighthouse went cold
just when we needed it most–
a white light filling with blues.
The carbons grew shorter and
and the days rang around
like quoits of a terrible steel.

With the marsh grass so close    That’s when you mentioned
the effluent’s stench                  your love for me burned
the moon’s pity                         fell for another

The carbons burned lower,
the blues shifted down
no way to replace them
or push them together
hoping the last breath
or heart would ignite them.
The great light went out.
Two ships piled up on the shore.

W Kirkland

1979, Spain