It isn’t that we had no warning.
Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.
Black as Death with one white mitten,
Knew it was coming.
Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.
And fishing boats, the last couple of days,
Have left notes in the Message Box,
Down on the Lighthouse dock.
One of the notes had been relayed
From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,
Informing of this passage into the harbour,
And the night this would be done.
So,
As Lighthouse Keeper,
I await
On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,
Which I am sometimes
Expected to wear,
Since I represent the might
Of Majesty,
As sole subject, yet overlord,
Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.
Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.
I feel the still on the sea.
I understand why they have awaited
This shroud of fog.
I have,
With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,
Seen the approaching ship,
With each of its lanterns
Glowing through red glass.
I can imagine the unfurled red sails.
So, I stand,
And I wait,
With my own red lantern,
And wish I were hunkered down
With Paw, the cat/kitten,
Who chose his hiding place
An hour ago.
I wish for Sister Darling,
Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),
To be with myself and Paw,
On this night.
And this passage.
She could offer both physical
And Spiritual comfort,
To Paw and me.
Paw likes to nestle beneath
Her wealth of long hair,
And I would like to touch it.
But she,
With both the Bishop of the Roman church,
And the Bishop of the Anglican church,
In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock,
On shore,
In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.
They will sing and chant their
Religious words of hope.
While I, when the time is right,
Will curl up in my greatcoat
Beside Paw,
And wait out the night
While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
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