Heceta Head, Oregon Coast

Begin at the beach At the bottom of the bluff Then come with me, winding way up The sandy trail, The trees holding their twisted limbs In impossible shapes, The magic of the light Creeping through the branches Makes a Tolkien fantasy Of this hollowed-out glen. Imagination in flight might find The hobbit holes and sleeping elves Cradled in the boughs of Ents. But the trail beckons upwards, Past the wildflowers Peeking from the bush, The regal purple of their bearing Proclaim their rightful place Among the green. The twist of the road takes us higher, To an open space— The picket-fenced grounds and red-trimmed house Of the lighthouse keeper's family. A hundred years have passed, since last They took their chairs to the porch and Watched the sun go down, But if you're willing, you still may find a bed here And a breakfast fit for a king. The real treasure, though, lies farther yet, Up the hill, through another stretch of pine and gravel— The lighthouse itself, Proudly perched on a most commanding point Surveying the panoramic meet of wave and sand Far, far down This plunging, pine-swept slope Below. Have a seat in the grass We'll linger here The wind so cool on the face, ahhh! A ship there, look, making its way Ever so slowly On the horizon. ~ Laurence Overmire