His hands, calloused like the outer case of
Quahog ringed white with age.
His heart, soft as the meat inside.
With his arms he bears the water’s waves.
His back, eroded by the salt
‘Til he stands like a cliff,
Tall and majestic,
Yet beat in—bent.
Upon early morn, this seafarer clinks his lamp
Oiled by kerosene, he treads on.
He took an oath to follow down this plodded path,
Routine moated in his veins.
His knees stitch and his joints flare,
But still this seafarer pays his fare.
Brought up by the roaring winds
He uses his own pinchers
to polish the lighthouse lens.
Though eroded his body may be
He stands un-chafed in spirit
—a tall beacon flashing—
Landmark
For those splashing
Against the dark.