Horny doggies and children play around her skirt. Men photograph her. The sun adores her. Lovers, long after midnight, do their courting beneath her while dead men rise under her. Yet, come what may, she remains stoical, serene, standing alone above the meringue topped waves. There is no denying her beauty.
Slender, curvy, she carries her height with dignity; neither shivering, nor retreating in the face of nature’s onslaught. Don’t look for toes – don’t imagine breasts to feed a wanton child, for she has none of these. No silk panties beneath the fall of her dress. There’s no biting of her ass, no brushing of hair, for she is excited only by the north wind; a wind that whistles a requiem for the passing leviathans. She needs no extra bed clothes, nor has any appetite for sleep. No legs will she spread, yet sailors have yearned for the direction of her beam.
She’s as much at home with tragedy, and catastrophe, as she is tranquillity. Those men not blessed by the sympathy of her Fresnel glance, run the risk of journeying to hell.
Seas rise and fall, while sulky squalls, like angry mobs, attack her aloofness. ‘Come close at your peril.’ That’s Arena’s message, every six seconds, of every day.
(Point Arena Lighthouse)