The mechanics of a lighthouse:

Lamp oil.
Lens.

The heart,
a reservoir of copper
and cotton wick.

The lamp itself
sitting inside a giant glass prism
shaped like a beehive,

in slow rotation
by weights and pulleys.

Each rotation held
the lighthouse’s signature flash pattern,
the heartbeat
recognized by sailors.

During the oil-lit era,
the light was truly dependent
on human devotion,
often remembered with reverence.

I stood inside the lantern room,
the distinct scent of metal and oil, salt,
and sun-warmed air.

The ancient channel of light
imprinted in my heart
in a way I still carry.

Magic brought to and through human hands,
nestled like a rook near the sea.
Its light striking.