Through the pale darkness that welds over the dusty blue of summer,
Like a buoy, grounded in nought but its gravity of being,
Her love calls like a foghorn scything through opacity.
The strange image is not lost on me;
Perhaps a lighthouse conveys the solitary beauty in the sea of despair,
Or a candle that burns longer than eight days, or years,
That it is beyond time, but no:
It blares louder than a jackhammer’s scream,
Permeating indiscriminately through every pore of me,
Embalming in the quiet brilliance of an unseen light.
Untamed, its visceral glow takes a vice-like grip upon my heart
But feels a gentle caress, pleasant as the noon-breeze,
And suspends all thought that of her does not remind.
Calmly, always at high tide, her love washes over me, and I let it,
Expecting brine but tasting ambrosia,
Recognizing its effect because days in her light
Are refracted upon fragments of blissful eternity.
For others, love’s temporal nature has scared, or scarred,
But I, impervious to the same, am bestowed an immortal foghorn,
Timeless of ambrosia, and of its own:
Bold and unimpeded in maelstrom or malevolence of haze.
The photograph is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s collection: