Love At the Lighthouse
We'll meet at sunset, says my lovely Marcellina,
cuddling up to me so soft and warm.
When the glowing sun sets and paints the sky
with all the shades of vermilion hues.
As dusk descends on the carmine horizon
I betake myself to the lighthouse.
It is so pleasant tryst for me since I love to watch the beacon
as its flashes all the time, but especially during some stormy night,
where Stygian gloom blocks out the stars
and pitch darkness becomes tangible.
Oh how secure and safe and warm I feel.
For look, the sun fades fast, as dusk grows intensely into obscure pitch,
take the winding path along the shore
as the moon rises in the crepuscule of day,
throwing obscure shadows behind me.
An owl wisely remains silent while gulls utter occasional squawks.
A breeze wafts, spreading the scent of jasmines.
The warm of love is all around.
So to the lighthouse I softly wend,
attracted by its palpitating flash.
My heart is beating fast in anticipation
and know that Marcellina will be waiting there
beneath the Norway maple that adorns
the garden of the Italian guardian of the lighthouse.
We hug and kiss and murmur sweet nothings,
in harmony to the flashes that emanate
from the rotating top of the lighthouse.
So that even if the night is inky dark,
we know our love is lit with life saving light.
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