Lundy was a distant man.

Aloof.

Towering.

A misty man.

Severe.

I thought

“Poor man

he’s been battered by the ocean

since time

began.”

 

Lundy kept his shroud in place

I could not see his face

his granite nose and chin.

He would not let me in.

 

Three light houses had he.

I thought

“Silly Lundy!”

Because the first was built too high

lost in the sky

when fog swept in.

 

So cannons were installed

and when visibility was poor

the cannon-master had to ignite

the blast until the fog

slid past

as his wife and children held fast

in their tiny granite dwelling.

 

Lundy always looked above my head

as I lay in my bed

in Old Light Cottage

with the wind making it’s moan.

Light and water were denied

when the generator died

at midnight.

 

I remembered reading in the log

a former tenant of this fog

enshrouded place had said

the old light house is haunted.

 

You can still climb the tower

and as if in some romantic bower

at the top you’ll find

two deckchairs sitting, blind

waiting for two lovers to watch the sun decline

at horizon-watching time

as it brings darkness

over Lundy.

 

And I thought at his

volcano start

something had broke his heart

made him bereft

his old arteries were cleft

and there is no love for me

on Lundy.