To James, the lighthouse meant a grand escape
A place to leave behind familiar land
Where water washed away familial sand
Like father’s words when spoken, which would scrape
And threaten all the joy the boy could shape
Like lighthouse trips, young James had often planned
“The weather won’t be fine,” was just a strand
Of scraping, sandy words on father’s cape
“It may be fine,” his mother’s words were calm
James felt his joy return beneath her hands
Her touch was like a reassuring balm
It took him to the joy of lighted lands
He faced the storms of life with her aplomb
And left behind his father’s scraping sands.