All Ships at Sea
Sept 8 2016


I envy the man 
who kept the light.

Who dutifully trudged
the spiral stairs
and down-and-up again,
tending the beam 
in his glass-walled cupola.

Whose simple home 
was ship-shape snug.
A perfectly circular space;
the ideal form
according to philosophers, and mystics.
Because who wants to live in a box,
all right-angles
and blind spots?

Whose modest life
was ordered by a single task.
Whose quiet heroics
consisted of standing guard.
Before they automated the lights,
unmanned
those headlands
and barren rocks.

From the commanding heights
his light penetrates the dark,
reassuring all ships at sea
with its regular sweep
and certainty.
Which even the home-bodies, and land-locked
who are not as grounded as you’d think
can navigate by.

But mostly
it’s the solitude of his tower.
The  lap of surf, the ocean breeze.
The roar of gale-force wind;
rogue waves, battering its glass, 
the unstoppable sea
pounding its massive base.

But ships still founder 
against the rocks
and men are lost at sea.

And drowning sailors
still cling to shore;
the warm fire
he huddles beside
their last and only hope.