The Keeper’s Vigil

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A lonely tower, against the ocean's might,

Stands sentinel through the darkest night.

Its lamp, a jewel, a promise to the wave,

A guiding star for all the ships to save.


From ancient fires on rugged, windswept stone,

Where crude wood burned, and early sailors groaned,

To Roman pharos, reaching for the sky,

A column’s flame where hopeful ships drew nigh.

Through medieval gloom, a flickering, faint gleam,

A monk’s devotion, a guiding, waking dream.

Then Smeaton’s stone, a marvel, strong and bold,

A new age dawning, stories to unfold.

The Argand’s glow, then Fresnel’s brilliant art,

A gathered beam, a beating, watchful heart.

From whale oil’s scent to kerosene’s clean burn,

Each dawn, each dusk, the keeper’s steadfast turn.

With clocks and prisms turning through the storm,

A dance of light where dangers would deform.

The sea would roar, the lightning crack and flare—

Yet through it all, that light was always there.


His duty bound, a silent, solemn trust,

To scour the lens, to polish shining dust.

To trim the wick, to wind the turning gear,

To conquer shadows, quell a mariner’s fear.

Through howling gales, where spray assaults the pane,

He stands his watch, defying wind and rain.

The fog descends, a shroud upon the deep,

He sounds the horn, while weary sailors sleep.

A steady hand, a solitary soul,

His presence anchors, making spirits whole.

He logs the tides, the passing vessels’ grace,

A silent guardian in this isolated place.

His journal filled with storms and seals and stars,

Of ships gone missing, wrecked on hidden bars.

He speaks to gulls, to silence, to the stone,

And bears the weight of watchfulness alone.

The myths abound—of ghosts who light the flame,

Of phantom bells that toll in storm and shame,

Of love once lost to waves and never found,

Still guiding sailors from beneath the ground.

Each tower holds a thousand untold dreams,

Some carved in brass, some drifting out in beams.

But now wires hum where once a keeper trod,

Automation’s touch, a nod from man to God.

No boots now echo on the spiral stair,

No breath to fog the ever-salted air.

A flashing pulse, precise, unerring, cold,

Still serves the coast, but no warm hand to hold.


Yet in the beam, a whisper still remains,

Of those who braved the solitude, the pains—

The human spirit, steadfast, true, and deep,

The light they kept, while all the world did sleep.

The lighthouse stands, through ages, strong and bright,

A timeless beacon, conquering the night.

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