Lighthouse (Poetry)

Accusatory, scarred from callous seas’
rough handling and coarse, abrasive gales,
the rock’s thin digit points, grown raw and numb,
its weathered skin of grass burnt patchy-brown,
stalks brittle, crusted hard with wind-dried brine.

And on its tip, and seeming banished there,
the lighthouse stands, prominent, tooth-white,
its limewashed brick a sheer, defiant show
that dares, in turn, each noisy warring wave,
and rattles to their thunder as they break.

Forever looking seawards, facing out,
a duty never ending, never done,
like some unwritten punishment dreamed up
for buildings thought unfit for life in towns
but useful for one lone and thankless task.

Stubborn, strong and focused, standing firm,
the lighthouse serves its single purpose well,
its warning terse and simple, telling all
in one communication — stay away,
keep your distance — there is danger here.

Ships pass by with scarce a second glance
and take for granted every flash of light
that keeps them safe, reminds them to beware
the rocks, the currents and the ocean’s spite,
forget the exile on the edge of land.

A house denied a living occupant —
one human soul to share each gloomy watch,
listen to the forecasts, read the signs
as storms come in to bully, fog to blind
and isolate — old echoes fill the shell,

whisper above raging seas and wind,
moan about the cold and empty place
as drafty stone complains of sacrifice,
having had no choice, but anchored here —
an outpost of the colony, unmanned.