A lighthouse stands under the starry sky.

With a wide stance and sturdy form, it is built to withstand both wind and waves, while its flashing light calls welcome to ships approaching the harbour.

Perplexingly, there is a lone red picnic table standing in front. I am drawn to sit at it, still contemplating the lighthouse. As my mind wanders, I think of those before me who, looking up, would have seen this same vast canopy of stars.

I imagine I see the lights of the fishing boats returning home late after a full day of fishing, following the lighthouse beacon to safety. It’s so quiet that I can hear the voices of the fishermen carried over the water, as they make their way into the harbour.

A fog rolls in, and the keeper of the lighthouse stands on the gallery, labouring to sound his hand-operated foghorn, in answer to the calls from the inbound steamship from Sydney.

I’m drawn back to the present, and look once more upon the guardian of the harbour.