Pemaquid Point

Perched atop Pemaquid Point

while angry waves pummel splintering rocks,

I am the heroine in a gothic

Jane Eyre-like tale.

I stand balanced on a cliff,

enveloped in semi-permanent fog,

listening to the rushing crash of the water.

I imagine myself as a governess

in a drab brown dress

spurned by a cruel lover;

wistfully contemplating suicide.

Or an almost-widow

peering out into the black-shrouded sea,

wondering whether her missing sailor

will spy her in the momentary spotlight

of the towering lighthouse.

Pemaquid Point calls into the darkness

jutting into the Atlantic at her own peril,

flashing her white light every six seconds

to seamen who speak her language.

But at night, the Point is mine alone

as I creep in shadow past the unwelcoming gate

and stand on the edge of a bittersweet love story

bound to end in ruins

on jagged rocks

piercing hollering waves

that prompt gothic heroines to jump.