The lighthouse stands on jagged shore,
Its beam a finger through the night.
Salt-laden winds around it roar.
Inside, the keeper tends the light,
His calloused hands on polished brass.
The lantern turns, a constant sight.
Below, the waves crash and amass,
Their foamy fingers claw the stone.
How many ships have come to pass?
He winds the clockwork, hears it groan,
A rhythmic pulse that marks the hours.
Up here, he’s terribly alone.
The night stretches, the darkness towers.
He wonders of the lives out there,
Guided by these borrowed powers.
Does his light truly pierce despair?
Or is it just a feeble spark
Against the vast, uncaring air?
The keeper climbs down stairs so dark,
To check the stores of oil and wick.
Each step, a duty to remark.
Time moves slow, yet all too quick.
Dawn will come, then dusk again,
An endless cycle, sure and slick.
What purpose in this vigil then?
To stand against the void so black,
A human will against nature’s den?
He ascends, takes his usual track,
To watch the light sweep across the sea.
Perhaps some ship will signal back,
A fleeting connection, wild and free.
But likely not. The night wears on,
And he remains, just him and he,
In lighthouse tall, where he belongs,
A simple note in time’s long song.
________________________________________
Rowan Duncan (b. 1977) is an American writer from West Texas. His writing explores themes like Nature, Existentialism, and the darker aspects of the human mind.
Its beam a finger through the night.
Salt-laden winds around it roar.
Inside, the keeper tends the light,
His calloused hands on polished brass.
The lantern turns, a constant sight.
Below, the waves crash and amass,
Their foamy fingers claw the stone.
How many ships have come to pass?
He winds the clockwork, hears it groan,
A rhythmic pulse that marks the hours.
Up here, he’s terribly alone.
The night stretches, the darkness towers.
He wonders of the lives out there,
Guided by these borrowed powers.
Does his light truly pierce despair?
Or is it just a feeble spark
Against the vast, uncaring air?
The keeper climbs down stairs so dark,
To check the stores of oil and wick.
Each step, a duty to remark.
Time moves slow, yet all too quick.
Dawn will come, then dusk again,
An endless cycle, sure and slick.
What purpose in this vigil then?
To stand against the void so black,
A human will against nature’s den?
He ascends, takes his usual track,
To watch the light sweep across the sea.
Perhaps some ship will signal back,
A fleeting connection, wild and free.
But likely not. The night wears on,
And he remains, just him and he,
In lighthouse tall, where he belongs,
A simple note in time’s long song.
________________________________________
Rowan Duncan (b. 1977) is an American writer from West Texas. His writing explores themes like Nature, Existentialism, and the darker aspects of the human mind.
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