Fisgard

The sharp tang of salt and creosote

Punches steadily away

 

Insistent surf froths

 

A short distance away an old gun emplacement scowls

In the distance stands Fisgard Lighthouse

Towering oyster shell white, capped and bolstered in red

Rampant as Priapus proclaiming fecundity

 

Quite rightly, given its proximity to the naval base

Where young men stand straight and tall

In their dress whites

Shining brightly

Sometimes forgetting that they are a warning

Of dangers at their feet

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2013