Cathedral of Tides

At dusk the lighthouse yawns, a throat of stone, its spiral ribs wet with old salt and moon. Gulls stitch the air, white needles, loose in wind.

Inside, the lens is a sleeping eye, glass muscles dark, holding a century of storms. Ferns have moved in, green choirs in the stairwell.

I climb past rusted names and chalked initials, each step a note in the tide's slow hymn. The sea below keeps time with a soft hammer.

When I reach the lantern room, I find only dusk and the horizon breathing like a great animal. I leave a match unlit, a promise for the waves.