There is an anchorage, it overlooks the Silver Bay. A harbor safe from the Oceans thunder. Some seek refuge in this place. No less a beacon than the Lighthouse itself which lies guardian to this islands shore, across this bay of Silver.
Silver is the sheen of the water as the stars duplicate themselves. Twin pinpoints of light. The heavens above; the shimmering identity of each again, gently rippling in the water caressed by the sea breeze.
Silver is the crescent moon. Once past the fullest of Harvest moons that visits with the falling of Autumns leaves. The scimitar shape slicing its way through the night.
So many things it could represent. To each of us a symbol that quickens the heart or dulls an ache in the soul.
With this Thanksgiving, I will choose to remember it as the brushstroke of the Almighty, gently reminding that which is best and dwells always within the hearts of us all.
And with each wave that sings the song of its existence; once mighty, now a gentle rush upon the sand, beneath the wisp of silver moonlight, next to this harbour, I will listen to the Voice of the Sea.
And always will I remember.