A single blue haired figure soars alone at night,
through the waters above her subacquatic home.
Gravity is for surface dwellers; the sea gives flight.
That’s why the Ancestors sank themselves in the foam.
She whispers thanks to them as she nears the sky’s edge.
She puts her hand through the ocean’s skin, feels the air,
recoils. The dryness bites. She sinks back from the ledge.
All life came from water; she’s happy to stay there.
The coral city she inhabits, beneath her,
slumbers, doesn’t notice her excursion, she’s free
to enter the ragged Lighthouse, the old structure
the Ancestors built to brighten the midnight sea.
Under water, the moonlight only goes so far.
The Lighthouse, with its pearl prism mirrors, caught the light,
kept it strong as it descended, bright as a star.
The city could continue its work in the night,
but the glow drew surface dwelling sailors, also,
and leviathans and dendans, and all their kin.
Therefore the Lighthouse mirrors were removed, so
night now means a hault to progress, retreating in.
There in the ruins, she feels the story’s current.
She imagines that reflected light, yearns for it.
The mirrors are gone, but she could get replacements.
Surely she could determine how to make them fit.
She quickly ends her fantasy. It’s best undone.
Darkness keeps the surface where it is, keeps it gone.