Clad in homespun in summer
or her husband’s thick red and black plaid shirt
in winter, two hours before dusk each day
she crosses from cottage to tower. Joined
by the dog they slowly ascend the spiral staircase
pausing on landings to honor arthritic joints.

Entering the lantern room
she checks the kerosene supply, trims the wick,
then polishes lenses and each window
as if they were fine crystal. On foggy days
she turns on the diaphone,
audible companion to the light
lest its beacon prove inadequate in the haze.

It was easier when her husband was alive.
The young couple arrived on the rock
full of love and sense of duty. Nights
together in the cottage they read
in the circle of light cast by the kerosene lamp,
made love beneath the star quilt,
her aunt had sent as a wedding gift, the beacon
casting shadows across their passion. Each day
passed in devotion to one another
and the light. Now she measures
her life from sunset to sunrise.

Sometimes on days when the sea
perfectly mirrors the sky she stands
on the widow’s walk and thinks
about the brother she was too young
to remember. She watches the boats
fishing or plying their goods
along the rocky coast, their crews
counting on this guardian angel
of light and foghorn
for their very survival.

– Marianne Gambaro

Author’s Note: This poem is an homage to those who had the lonely job of diligently maintaining lighthouses before they were automated.