Lighthouse at Saint Pauls

Fingers of stone wait for passers-by
to visit awhile.

The lighthouse at Saint Paul's had aged
beyond its years, a beacon dead and buried,
the stones holding it were letting go.

I eased down to the shore on a gravel trail
pulled the rowboat from grapevine and dodder
and set it afloat. Slow. Steady. I fought wind and waves;
working my way to the island.

I drove it to shore, scratching into sandstones
Then rose and set one foot on steady ground,
Grabbed a tow-rope, tugged it ashore,
and secured it to a hitching tree.

In small intervals:
Climbing, pausing, climbing again.
At the stone tower, it was time
to clear away dust and rot
from this makeshift fort.

After the run of day, I made my way home
Only to return tomorrow.