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.