The Lighthouse

Behold the strength of the lighthouse —
a savior of men, of their industries, of foreign wares,
perched on cliffs that long have stood the swell.
The insecurities of night have never touched it —
a guiding light, an angel to the water-blind,
the lighthouse stands — the sailor’s hope,
beckoning the tide-wearied home.

But imagine —
over countless days (how many?) the workers toiled
to secure at first the beacon’s monstrous base.
Bones, marrow, human waste all sprinkled
in the chaos of those endless days.
No guiding lights had they;
the sun, the moon, the stars, the elements —
to these the workers clung and prayed.
In the distance, darkness and the rattling of the sea foam —
by their side, not even the comfort of fire and home.

So did the lighthouse come to be,
standing sternly now over the seas —
in darkness finding its own light,
now stands in darkness to give others peace.