No More.
Under a sky blue as herons' eggs,
low tide washing pebbles and feet on the slide
he shored his small vessel.
High herring gulls wheeling loudly
shrieked a goodbye as he made his way over
land's tussocky towans.
Looking around he cast a keen
eye along coastline, noticed a woman and pup
having fun on the beach.
And as he sampled new freedom
away from the white finger pointing skyward
he felt no more a keeper.
Now automated every Lighthouse
had no human need yet who by instinct when
storms hit would likely peer out ?
Who could in gales see shades
of anger when Long-rock turned from murky
grey to a dark purple rage ?
When the ocean's great heave
made passage round humpback so dangerous
while its eye promised evil.
Then boats caught in understroke's
horror might fight but breaking in two would
toss overboard fearful folk.
What now he wondered would
happen to those in the ink of black sea during
battle of wind against wood.
The last Lighthouse keeper
felt a tear fall although having been told that
he could now sleep easy.
But would he ?
-
Author:
Fay Slimm. (
Offline) - Published: January 22nd, 2018 05:06
- Comment from author about the poem: The picture is of the last lighthouse keeper at Pendeen in West Cornwall and the verse is a tribute to all the keepers who worked at the safety of those at sea.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
- Users favorite of this poem: Lorna
Offline)
Comments5
Good write Fay.
Wonderful write and tribute to all those wonderful lighthouse keepers, they were wonderful people.
Thanks fr for another elegant and nostalgic POEM ! Even in my short lifetime I have seen things once sacred (audio tapes & video tapes & pressure cookers etc) become outmoded and discarded ! I love LIGHTHOUSES and thank God many are under preservation orders ! Your poem highlights the bravery and diligence of those who once bravely manned them ~ their fortitude will never be replaced ! Thanks for caring FAY ~ Yours as ever BRIAN !
Great imagery, great write - thanks Fay.
A sad beauty. It's a little like when your children fly from the nest and you have little of a part in their days anymore. Sad to wrest the human touch from such a noble work.
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