After years of loneliness a lighthouse keeper ends his career.
|The man on his island, stands, alone,|
Within the shadows, outside of the beacon's light.
The white-capped waves have settled now,
Giving way to ripples that barely lick the shore.
He has been waiting on his island fortress,
A fortnight, at least, for the wicked weather to cease.
Half a month or longer he has counted,
Since his last human contact.
He knows not when the tender will return,
All his sustenance aboard.
All he knows is of the sea and the beacon,
And of the illumination he must maintain.
He masks well his discontent, his futile loneliness.
The gulls, the turtles, the albatross
Are his only companions now.
They alone will watch him gaze upon the wild sea.
One star-filled night he awakens,
To an inner, desperate pull.
He climbs the light tower one last time,
Doubtful of his return from the sea.
Looking landward he sees no vessel,
Approaching from the river mouth.
His desperation filling him now,
Alone with his every thought.
He then descends the height of the tower,
In one dramatic leap.
Leaving behind no note, no clue,
Just his stains upon the rocks below.
The boats report the light's gone out,
And soon a ship draws near.
A new light-keeper has at last arrived,
And again the lonesome light appears.