Lighthouse Nighthouse

by grimbeau

Huguenot lovers on St. Bartholomew's Day


Cricket and pills.


A Huguenot calls.


We talk balls.


Share our ills.




I do not wear lace since chiffon left.


Yet the memory of soap suds abides.




The medication commences just


after lunchtime on the second day.


Two down eight to go. Too high to control:


off the mark. breathe a sigh of brief relief.


Night is right.




Theodolites at dawn portend a repast


of frogs and lizards.


We shall heat them up before we eat them up


watching for triremes from the lighthouse penthouse.