Rethymnon lighthouse waltz

At the end of the pier,
Where few tourists go
In the mad Cretan heat,
O’er the waters so clear
That languidly flow
To bathe his tired feet,

He stands tall and straight
With a big toothless grin
On his world-weary face,
Watching tourists and freight
Purring out, purring in,
Past his thick sturdy base.

His old grey tin cap –
Does it nod to the bucks
In their bright fancy gear
That now hold the map
And the maritime books
On the opposite pier?

Does his mind flicker back
To empirical times
When he stood proud and strong,
Shining forth in the black,
With his nautical chimes
Chanting loud the old song?

In his mind, does he hear
The victorious crow
Of the large Turkish fleet?
At the end of the pier,
Where few tourists go
In the mad Cretan heat...