Adrift on the misty sea, we glimpse a light ahead. Wet slaps on the side of our wooden bucket. We are cold, alone. The light is atop a wood pole, gnarled, rotted and covered in barnacles. No sooner do we reach this pole than we see another light ahead. Brighter, clearer, though not by much. Despite our tired and miserable state, we push on just a little more, in hopes of finding a kinder light to stop in. What we find there is a wood pole, sturdier, though encased in barnacles, and moored to its length is a small row boat. Better than our bucket. We pile in, ready to collapse. Then, up ahead, a light. Brighter, stronger. What harm can one more do? We press on, to better prospects. This one is of rusted iron and the torch is now a lantern. Still, further on, a brighter light yet. And so on and so on. We limp forward, pole to pole, boat to boat, light to light, never stopping, ever weary, always looking ahead to some brighter day and spending more hours in mist and darkness than in luminance.
Paddy Dobson
6th April 2021