Arcadia's Mooring
From the lush, moistness of the hardwood forests
Down to the great wilderness and beyond
Morning fog flows over the mountain pass
Clipping the treetops, flowing softly; quietly
As a river of mist to the rocky coast below.
From the stillness, sounds of the ocean come crashing
And well up like roaring, foaming thunder to the hills
On an outcropping at the point, is a pinnacle towering
The mighty waves bow at the doorstep of Arcadia
They are servants to the granite in the beacon.
Marked as a transition from the never-ending sea
As a demarcation to the rocky cliffs, at the mirrors edge
When frosted gales howl with a nor’easter’s frigid sting
It’s the warmth of the great beam’s presence
That guides us to the shore, and around the sandy shoal.
The fleet weighs anchor, with lines cast toward the tempest
Sailing on the elusive ebb of the rising tide
From the toils of the crabbers and the lobsterman
The lighthouse holds the key to a watery voyage
And a rendezvous with the limitless expanse.
As a monument for those that brave the sea
Majestic and stalwart is this giant sentinel
A candle lit at the ocean’s misty window
Within its ever-searching eye, sails unfurl
Talking to the darkest night, directing the passage of the mariner.
So beware when you sail in the shadows, beyond the piercing light
With darkness, wrapped in a dampened, liquid current
Down the coast we tack, until another signal shines aloud
When at last, that old familiar lighthouse rises from the horizon
Like the brightest star light atop our Yuletide tree.
With God at the helm, Arcadia’s mooring, is once again at hand.