THE WATCHMAN

Watchman watches on his tower,
Where he sees not grass, nor flower.
He is alone atop his home,
He cannot leave, or run, or roam,
For well he knows it is his work,
To watch the sea and all that lurk,
And watch the tides go high or low,
And every wave that splash so slow.
As if a statue he does seem,
Ever watching, with his white beam.
Don't get me wrong, he is not sad,
Well, perhaps sad, if just a tad.
For well he knows of squawk of crow,
When he must take a final bow,
But that time is not yet nigh,
As he glances at seagulls fly,
And he hears the winds great sigh,
And great boats horns while passing by.

-Bill Budington