Rising from odd years sleep, I am told to turn and await the coming. Folding hands from habit, facing a northern sky, reaching beyond my horizon, across the waters, out of the boat, I turn and wait. Thunder is a counting distance away from the light, So I count the seconds to the minute to the hour of an uncertain time. Closing my eyes, banishing thought, wearing a cloak, I count. Through the stillness in between, poised and ready, It is my turn to keep watch. Handing the lantern to the child on my right, lifting the linen to the winds, straining the salt from the waters, I keep an eyeful watch. Once my feet traced circles in the sand. Twice I let drop my guard. Three times I was given a gift. Four strokes left my heart in hand. Five fingers will ring the bell, as I ready my heart, watching, counting, waiting for the promise.