Farol do Cabo de São Vicente. Sagres Peninsula. 11 January 2018
So new, but so familiar. Like my summer haunt across the ocean; now winter covered, all fret and gloom.
Same function in the same sea, but history was won and lost here, fame and fortune cutting out into the deadly night.
All through dark times you've shone like the beacon you are. A piercing light cutting through the blackness.
Strategically placed at the end of the known world. No European peninsula more south-westerly than where you dominate both land and sea.
Growing bigger, more powerful. Henry the Navigator wooed you as his gateway to the unknown. The last bastion of civilisation and safety.
Offshore when you slumber, the Shearwater ride the troughs, gaining advantage in changing pressure. Balearic more common here, but still endangered.
Above the brooding cliffs, Peregrine slice through the wind whilst Chough merely dance with it. Raw power intertwined with graceful ballet. Same as summer lost.
But the night-time shows your dominance. The Odyssey Cyclops: your penertrating presence; your reason for being.
Like a moth I'm drawn to you; the 'something of the night' in me. Unwillingly revealed but revelling in your metronomic embrace.
Illuminated, but inevitably shrinking under the unnerving penetration of your gaze...