Sunday, 2 August 2009


In darkness it rises from its winks;
Eyes the red of deepest crimson;
Teeth the plain white of bleached bone.

It snarls and snaps in agony;
The howling of the sea squall
Drowns out its moonlit cries.

Born of the night,
It takes to the air
In search of that which it seeks.

A lighthouse stands
Perched above a cove
Like a matchstick in unknowing tinder.

With a slight thud
It lands atop the search-light's crown.
It's the last thing you'll ever hear.

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