The Latest Lighthouse Keeper

The lamp no longer shines.  It’s been disconnected since time immemorial.  Cut off. 
This place has been long abandoned.  Only an idiot would take up residence here. 
We choose, of course.  We are not forced. 

There could’ve been another way.  Rust coats my stained fingers as I climb the iron stairs.   
Some come for the view – me, I’m here for the ghosts. 

On this first night, at midnight they show up;
As predictable as clichés – the pale ones in billowing white nightgowns,
The multi-coloured guys - green, purple with green rings, green with yellow rings,
Any combination, in fact, of ring and base colour, you might care to dream up. 

So strange.  The lovely ancient lace, browning now at the edges,
The beads that hem the garments.  The fancier ones sport feathers. 

They are from all the centuries.  They come marching in, like saints –
An invisible orchestra keeps the beat.  Ghostly music enchants the air –
Like the scent of flowers from some other-worldly garden.   

Anybody else would run screaming. 
Me, I keep very silent.  Me, I keep very still.
I have always loved a parade. 

This is the most excitement I’ve had in decades. 

Even before they depart, I’m down on my knees, praying, saying,
O when will you return?

But they have other visits to make –
It’s over, now, my turn.