The Needles

On the Old Battery,

I stand westward

and windward.

My sight line

slightly out of true, 

a degree or two

less than vertical.

But then, triggered

and captured in my camera,

the sharp, white razor rocks

known as The Needles.

Made over millennia

by wind and wave and water,

shaped sharply and incessantly,

a natural creation,

even caught on camera.

Here, in the island’s prow,

westward and windward,

there is still space for other sights.

More tightly framed

in the wide angle lens,

a rectangle of concrete,

neat and straight, edge perfect.

A searchlight emplacement 

positioned with precision,

not to protect The Needles

but to detect, and help the Battery guns

repel, deflect invading vessels.

Vessels made by man and men.

It is telling,

the concrete contrast

caught on camera.

Today, the guarding guns have gone.

There are no searchlights now.

So still The Needles stand, 

jagged and rewarding,

way beyond man’s reach.

Westward and windward.

And, when all is done, 

a wonder.