Port Clinton Lighthouse

Constable was at it again, as tempestuous as the daylight is difficult to count when its savings take the zenith and assign it to a prepaid lunch schedule of its own. But hand to heart, the horse is my friend and I shall not want while he leads my boat around.

The truth is, I was worried about my old friend. He was showing his years and wearing the dignity of old age and long exposure on his brow courageously, but as I wrote this aloud I noticed a series of huffs and puffs and snuffs coming from his direction. He was uninterested in taking my inquiries seriously, boasting instead that it was difficult to carry a loudly complaining writer for more than 36 hours at a time even for a young horse, and might I, as the one creature in the vicinity with opposable thumbs, consider using the oars?

But by then the oars were sinking long below the surface, having succumbed to a storm more of temperament than physicality. Constable's cigarette withdrawal notwithstanding, he drew a tarot card for good luck and I promptly sent it down with the oars, because the Devil is a good looking fellow only if you meet him face to face, and that I stand by with the devotion of a thousand pebbles.

So it came that we drifted onto the beach by the lighthouse at dawn. Ironic as it was that only 150 years ago this lighthouse had been shut down for its poor location, so I and Constable consistently found ourselves running aground on this tour of lighthouses.

Perhaps the wind is but a whisper that tickles the nose of fate. Perhaps age is but a sandwich dry of the grave. Perhaps sweet and savory are but softly sighed aphorisms to an imaginary beloved forgiven their trespassings. Perhaps this Fig Newton is but the love child of a torrid affair ripped asunder by points back-end. Perhaps - but before I could continue, I overheard Constable whispering in the ear of a mourning dove:

Which star was first to come to light? Perhaps The solemn wise one in the corner, or The bright small one by the horizon, or The shimmering triad that wishes for A triple sun of their own to grant them Revolution and heal their tempered past With gifts of time and grace, follies to fix That incurable instinct to outlast. These worlds will never stop turning, their curse A remnant of the passive universe.

It later came to pass that the dove was in fact the author, and Constable was only seducing him for play.