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He lived on the stairs behind the old house,
Sheltered from the storms in his small retreat.
There were four wood steps shaded from the light;
This old lighthouse, high atop the big rock.
Abandoned to time many years ago,
Its foundation crumbling, its roof no more.
Each morning would find the old man awake,
Completing his chores as when he was young.
Later would find him halfway down the dock,
Angling for a catch before the noon sun.
Sometimes his small fish he'd fry in a pan;
Sometimes he'd just dry them all in the sun.
His name was Ron and he'd fought in the War;
He was in Operation Desert Storm.
Ron lost his right foot to an I.U.D.;
Was in the desert, on an armed Humvee.
He was a sergeant in the U.S. Marines,
The one life he always had envisioned.
When he returned home he was lost and scared;
Was nothing for him about which he cared.
His fiancée had left him hurt and broke,
There were no jobs for a busted marine.
It wasn't as if he made no attempt;
He wanted not pity, nor their contempt.
He got a small disability check,
And left town for a solitary life.
The old lighthouse was a beacon for him;
Its reflection glimmered in the sun's light.
Ron came to the light and it came to him;
A remediation vital that day.
A house attached to the tall stone tower -
Life for Ron in his desperate hour.
A beacon in the night it used to be;
A light by day, for the man it set free.
One day, he may again, return to town,
A much wiser, nobler, contented man.
For he has seen nature and made his peace;
The Light of the Lord, has shown him the way.

June 24, 2016

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