Lighthouses, it seems, take thirty-six watt bulbs
A third of those that shine above me, used
To keep rocks unencrusted by skeletons
Hulls draped like whalebone fossils over stone
How many men does it take to change them?
No joke when so far from shore, remote
And guarded even from repair crews’ boats
By frothing water sheathing points beneath
No men wait within the place these days, no
Bearded keeper, lonely, watching out for
Shadows of things lit too near the rocks
No peaceful stay within this man made spur
Nothing but that single thirty-six watt bulb.
Stuart Sharp,
Beverley.
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