I walk along the sunny sea,
while scenting morning mist and tea.
The willow woodlands call to me.

The day is bright and young as yet.
The frothing sea is cool and wet.
I won't be swayed - my mind is set.

Though I'm not old I am the last,
my family is of the past.
The spell of aging has been cast.

A lighthouse stands in salty spray.
My death lies there, a mile away -
beyond these lands, so fierce and fey.

I reach the brittle whitewashed base
and stare up towards the endless space.
I've lost my light, as has this place.

I pick a single withered thyme.
Without remorse I start my climb
to taste the wind a final time.