Burnt Island Memory

Today, the harbor's cool and calm
nearby Burnt Island shore.
The gulls cry out while there's a balm
that taps upon my door.

Ghost fog has lifted past the morn
and now across the bay,
my view expands as sun adorns
the sparkling waves that sway

in kinds of lyrics.  Winds rejoice.
To me it is a song
that calls one in a misty voice
to harbor low and long.

The lighthouse stands.  It is as I,
a kind of sentinel
that gazes out to sea and sky
and beckons my inkwell.