Before you came,
the lighthouse.
   Aging, silently,
   saw it blink
   as if it knew me,
was stalking me,
a tiny inflamed eye.
   Reds popped as corks,
   smudge of blood
   on a north-eastern
summer sky.
And then,
   in a second
   as quick as a pulse
   on a wrist,
a flick to white,
a shard of champagne
   light latched
   upon my attention.
   Back to red.
And back again.
Two colours breathing in,
   blowing out,
   calling you.