To the Lighthouse

 

A bit of history with today's poem. I started with a walk, and the poem just took of in that direction.

To the Lighthouse

Walking to the lighthouse, it feels like I am part
Of a book by Virginia Woolf, life imitating art;
But it is such a fine day, and the tide is so low,
Safe from the causeway covered in strong flow,
As happened once long ago, just after the war,
Two holidaymakers, trying to return to the shore,
The tide cut them off, in front, and then behind;
The man struck out for the shore, his wife declined
And took shelter on a higher rock, above the sea,
Trapped by a rising tide, no escape, no way to flee;
Tidal pools combined, waves breaking on the kelp,
Then it was that Peter Larbaliester came to help;
Assistant Lighthouse Keeper, knew his duty,
Leaving behind the lighthouse, its scene of beauty,
To the grim contrast of sea flecked rocks, peril there:
The woman crying out for help, beset with fear;
He reached her, tried to bring her back to shore,
Against rising tide smashing on the rocks with roar,
And both swept away, lost to the currents strong,
Claimed by the sea, Davy Jones’s Locker now belong;
Bodies washed up later, and mourning wife bereft,
Her husband Peter stolen by the sea: Neptune’s theft;
By the wall, a plaque remembers his brave deed,
That he tried to help the woman in her hour of need;
Traveller, take note, and take care of the rising tide,
The causeway covered, and no place there to hide;
For his widow and young daughter, a fund was raised,
To help them in their troubles, that he might be praised,
And not forgotten, that support for them was made,
As ashes to ashes, dust to dust, they prayed.