I step out into a night
whose sharpness steals my breath
replacing it with salty fusion.
No conch trickery,
the white noise of distant ebb roars gentle
golden grains erased of transient print.
The lighthouse glows
in haunting persistence for lost souls.
Hypnotic log burn draws my nostrils skyward
and I dream of joining its sparkling specks
creating fantastic forms to punctuate its splendour
while salty bubbles
relentless in my ears.
Copyright © Greta Yorke 2015
I am a retired teacher living in Prestwick. I have had poems published in Scottish Memories, Word on the Street and Litereight publications.