The garden path is rough-hewn stone
It runs along the mountainside
Sheer cliffs at its edge
A rope fence to protect the traveler
The odd tree grows gingerly from the depths
Below the path and into the fog
That rises from the waves far below
I trudge along the path carefully
My pack on my back as I seek the lighthouse
Far at the end of this finger of land
Where water meets earth and sky
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