The Cliffs of Cornwall
The lighthouse poised upon the cliff,
The keeper flummoxed and distraught—
Fierce flocks of birds, in squalling clouds,
Transfixed — in blazing lamplight caught!
The cove in blanket solitude,
One hundred miles from town removed,
His stalwartness put to the test,
His fortitude in tumult proved…
The flaming paraffin ablaze,
A beacon beaming through the haze,
The birds in madness, circling high,
A turbulent and raucous craze!
The birds! The birds! with callous shrieks!
The latent fever in me piques!
The window shutters — stuttering,
The wooden doorway loudly creaks!
The voices in my head again—
Aroused in dread, and vexing shrill!
The blaring beaks and flapping wings!
I fear they wish to do me ill!
A vast migration, moving south,
Their booming numbers, crowding round,
An overdose of company!
I’m nigh to wretching at the sound!
A thumping body on the glass,
A scratching talon on the pane!
These darksome ghosts in feathered fray,
My God, I’m driven nigh insane!
Descending down the winding stair,
A helix spiralling to ground,
The keeper, overburdened, ran,
The squarking throng a harsh background,
He raced unto the clifftop’s height,
In overwhelming, galling fright,
The precipice — his final hope,
A suicide in howling night…
AD Lovkis, 31/07/25
adamdaniel 