This poem is from the spring 2026 edition of Mobile Baykeeper’s print quarterly, CURRENTS. The magazine is mailed to active members who have given more than $50 in the past year. To get on the magazine’s mailing list, donate here.
By Susan Rouillier
We left the shore with sunlight on our backs,
the boat slipping through flat Baywater
like a whisper.
At first, it was only a fleck
on the rim of horizon —
a rumor of something standing alone,
holding its place where sky touches sea.
As we drew closer,
the lighthouse began to rise —
hexagonal and sure,
its roof kissed by the sun,
whitewashed walls softened by time.
It stood not on land, but on slender stilts,
dancing above the tide,
balanced between history and now.
There was no wind.
Even the pelicans seemed to circle slower.
We all felt it —
a reverent hush
as if the Bay itself remembered.
Closer still —
I could see the rust on the rails,
the eyes of windows watching.
It wasn’t just a lighthouse.
It was a memory made visible,
the sound of old voices
in the back of the breeze.
I thought —
this is how we meet what endures.
Not in fanfare,
but in the steady, quiet awe
of coming near
something that has stood,
and kept its light
through storm and silence alike.
