Waves still hit the shore
after the sun sets.
Each moon-silvered line surges in,
slops over the weeded rocks,
rolls forward in a shoosh of pebbles.
A distant coaster, lit like Christmas
makes the slow pull east and silent
along the Fife sea-lane, past the double blink
of the May Island lighthouse.
In the soft sky above, two training jets
tag and roar, the orange glow
of the leader’s re-heat a clear boost,
a faster sprint to force the follower.
As they pass overhead, a shooting star
draws a yellow line across their path.
Of course I make a wish, wouldn’t you?