The Lantern’s Hollow

The salt-caked glass holds no fire now, only the slow, rhythmic sweep of the moon counting the ribs of sunken hulls. The iron stairs are a spiral of rust.

Wind whistles through the lantern room, a hollow flute carved from silence and the memory of a keeper’s heavy boots. The sea does not miss the warning.

Barnacles bloom like grey flowers along the foot of the granite tower, drinking the spray of every breaking wave. Time is a tide that never recedes.