Heceta Head, Oregon Coast Poem by Laurence Overmire

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