The window fogs up obscuring
the way the moon plays tricks
on the tip of each wave.
that creaking floorboard soaked through with salt
and the far off echo of a clanging bell.
Out there the slow approach
of a gliding rowboat.
This place casts out its lonely light
a beckoning gyration
tugging at the sleepy oars
dripping silently into the waves.
You can pull your cabled sweater close
and hide behind the darkened glass but
there’s no fighting
the draw of the signal,
the silhouetted rowers.
Where will you run
when you hear that first bootfall
on the ancient spiral stair.