A Poem by John Swain
The lighthouse a stone pile on Pilot Island
as the lake changes through the blue spectrum
and then into gun metal.
Sister islands rise in the whitecaps,
I fade to the swale like a labyrinth
the black bear devours.
The birches and maple burning a pyre at fall
for the great ships to ride into death
like a clear passage through the bay of the bays.
High waves break on the white shell shore
under the green house
as a bald eagle wing trembles raining lake droplets.
The water smoothed glass like an agate singers eye
I kissed in repentance for my life
awaiting the chord of the imagining light.