We drive an hour northward up the coast,
horizon bathed in fog just out of sight.
This kind of day makes one believe in ghosts
who haunt the salty air beneath the light.
We are the only tourists here today
because the wind is full of autumn’s cold.
The path runs round the tower and away
into the woods, ground soft on muddy soles.
There is no line between the past and now
as though the rules have all but been erased,
as if the sea is magical somehow,
existing in the cracks of time and space.
My eyes fly open and the sense is gone,
as morning claims the wild dreams of dawn.