Enormously the rock juts out the ocean
Surrounded by the foam of feral surge
A garland at the famous islands verge
With waves that bleed to death in locomotion.
The stone stands stable, never will surrender
Withstanding surf and storms and even time.
Apart reality it seems to chime
A silent sound mysteriously tender.
In quietude the island seems to slumber
And to consist of silent solitude
Containing nothing but the gannets’ hoot
That dwells on it in an amazing number.
When darkness of the night devours the boulder
And when the day inexorably sinks
From there the lighthouse quietly blinks
I feel inside a deep enticement smolder.