It was called the rock, forbidding, solitary.
The skiff landed on the rocky shore,
I heard it was always a dangerous landing
nothing about it was ever taken for granted.
As waves crashed against the rock,
moss adhered to the shore, slippery, wet.

A sturdy home stood, made of brick,
the pitch of the roof was able to sustain the gales.
The lighthouse, whitewashed, stood against
the blue sky, seen for miles, tall, erect, a beacon.
The lamp and windows were cleaned everyday,
he climbed the steps in all sorts of weather
to light the lamp, it was his duty.

The island was surrounded by sea and sky,
stars, the northern lights, provided the light show.
Other times the night was black, moonless,
clouds troubled the sky, thick fog, rain, wind howled.
The lighthouse keeper would look up
at all times to see the light glowing up above,
seen by ships for miles, lighting their way
to safe harbor.

The gulls nested on the rocks, flocks of white and gray
providing the family with eggs for breakfast,
the children would collect them each morning.
Trees and grass grew out of the rocks, a light
layer of soil rested providing a small garden,
to grow vegetables each summer,
a few flowers whatever could survive the harsh conditions.

Island life in the north, the children would load the cow
in the skiff rowing to the main island to let it graze.
This was their chance to play with the other island folk,
baseball, tag, watching the clouds, fishing.
There where stories of the fish they would catch,
the salmon, sturgeon the size of logs.
Smoked fish, pickled eggs, berries were abundant
in their diet and of course milk from the cow.

Summers passed this way for years, two generations
lived and loved in that brick house, lighting the way
for countless ships. The leaves would fall
the winds would pick up, that was the signal
for the family to leave.
The lighthouse keeper would wave on the shore,
alone, as the skiff pushed away.
His family safe from the storms.

The gales of November would ravage the rock
ice pelted the lighthouse, waves pushed up.
Ice covered the rocky shore, still the ships
sought safe passage to the harbor.
The lighthouse keeper would keep a wary eye
on the light, keeping the fire going.

Finally, the winds would calm,
the cold had descended, ice covered the sea.
The ships were in safe harbor, docked.
The lighthouse keeper, cleaned the lamp
before silencing it for the winter.
With a sigh he would shut the door,
stepping off the island.