(In his log, D. A. Mowat, keeper
at Killantringan Lighthouse, Wigtownshire,
records counting 293 moths near his lamp
on the night of 19th September 1913.)
I imagine sailors
watching the lamp’s eye,
envious as they creep
along the breast of the sea
like shadows.
From this high place
they are a plank’s width
from death,
all questions
drowned on their lips.
I know:
I’ve seen it.
I am beyond marrying,
watch moths instead of time,
beating on the glass. At night
I sit in the watchroom,
throw my beam of light
like a rope
across the back of the ocean,
and reel in hope after hope after hope.
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