My husband is a cold man,

and so I make him bread,

wrap it in old blankets,

and take it past the field

that tosses terns to the sea.

Out here, the clouds

build themselves up and over

in the sky and the water shines

like blue linen, clean off the line,

I could forget the lighthouse,

I could even forget the world,

rounding its way

ship by ship across the sky,

but for the steady pull

of his basket on my arm.

The wind blows from the west,

it turns the weather vane,

rounds the cliff to the north.

In the mornings, sometimes

the window gleams with sun,

making the kitchen glint

with metal pots and cutlery,

so much light blurring the room,

there is only the space

between me and the glass

filling with dust.

Then, I open the window

and set the birds flying

down past the chicory and sea grass

to flit in and out of the water, like fish.

Two hours from now,

he will strike a match,

light the kerosene lamp,

and I will feel

that slow heart of a beacon

pass me over, as it always does,

breath after breath,

to flash boats on and off in the dark.