Candle Beacon

A month past Christmas, we see a flame at the airport,
a beacon distorted by fog and dawn’s steam.
It seems to flare, then hover,
in this misleading sky that no longer tells time.
If it burns downward, is the day passing.
We drive closer, still on the mainland, trapped by gravity,
hoping for a balloon that runs on hot air
to lift us from this gloom.
If there were more beacons,
the island could be a candleholder,
its rough contours a floating menorah.
The ice floes in the channel melt,
vapour rises,
the smoke from an extinguished candle.

++++++Lucile Barker



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