Upon the Western Bay, the lighthouse stands,
A sentinel where rocky trails entwine,
With hilly paths that weave through nature’s bands,
Each step a journey, every view divine.

The boardwalk stretches, kissed by frothy waves,
That crash upon the rocks in wild ballet,
Look towards Cabot’s legacy, a schoolyard joy enslaves,
As children play, their spirits light and gay.

Look eastward past the Avalon’s embrace,
To where the green glens of old Ireland lie,
With eyes attuned to magic’s tender grace,
A world beyond the bay, beneath the sky.

In every cresting wave and whispered breeze,
The tales of land and sea blend with such ease.

-M. S Chandler