O Farso

To begin with not clear what the lighthouse does
with its absence of glass lens and bulb
at least to the naked eye—
just a spindly array of instruments up top

above the disappointingly stubby column
on a cliff-top with its padlocked metal doorway
but no sooner has the walking begun
than its subtle powers become obvious

your every step determined by its position
the heather the stony paths the steep incline
each locked in communication with it

and where all might have flowed before you
in a salted windswept wide plenitude
the lighthouse utters its singular word