The Lighthouse

A lighthouse sits on a rocky coast, glowing through heavy fog.

Surrounded by crashing waves under a moonlit starry sky.

"The sea is roiling tonight, I sure hope all the sailors are safe at port". Mused the Keeper of the house of hope.

With watchful eye, he peers...first binoculars and then the long range scope.

"All is clear...thank the stars. No one in peril or ship to run aground".

He barely places his rear on his chair, when his ears prick up.

The radio crackles....a voice...barely audible "Mayday"!

He climbed high to the top...swiveled the lights....Lit the lantern.

The Beacon’s lit, he cried...No vessel or wanting soul could he see

There came a hush before the thunder's blade,

The sky angered purple, winds came undone

The keeper stood with lantern’s glow

Where salt and silence flow and ebb.

His eyes, twin compass like needles drawn

To distant sails now frayed and woebegone,

A ghostly shape through mist’s he sees,

The siren's wailed where once silence lived.

He rang the bell, once, twice, then thrice,

Its toll a prayer, warm fire, lantern high

He turned the beam to cut the dark veil,

A blade of light through storm for hope.

The waves rose up like tales untold,

And clutched that ship in foamy hold,

Yet through the wrath, a glimmer

The keeper’s light, the lives to save.

They saw him not, but glimpsed the flame,

The pulse of a savior without a name.

A guardian not borne of crown,

Just weathered hands that would save from drown.

They followed the light to a safe berth

The ship anchored between sheltered rocks

When dawn unfurled her gentle skein,

The wreckage passed, the sea grown tame

The ship sailed on, the crew still whole,

The Keeper.

He stands where rock meets ocean, a weathered figure wrapped in a thick, rain-slicked coat - hood drawn, face obscured, but for the faint glint of resolve in his gaze. One hand clutches the lantern, its light sputtering gold through the storm’s gray breath, while the other rests on the ancient railing, fingers curled like the roots of an old tree. The beam from the lighthouse cuts diagonally overhead, but he remains in shadow...an unseen thread in the skyspan of night.

There's a hint of stoicism in his posture. Not heroic, exactly...more like someone who made peace with solitude long ago and found dignity in vigilance. Around his boots, the sea rages on, foaming like the mouths of restless spirits. Yet he does not flinch. The silhouette is still. Waiting.

Finally...assured that the ship, harbored safe from the storm, will once more sail the ocean on the morrow

He retreats to the warmth of the lighthouse.

Alas!

Unknowing to the saved lost, found souls.

In the tower, still and pale, the reaper had come calling

The keeper now rests beneath the sheltered veil

His light, now spent, still burns through lore

For all lost ships marked “Evermore.”

–––

Goodbye...dear Father.

Rest now.