Over time the ridge of the white pebbled beach

at Trwyn Du, Black Point, has risen –

rough tides edging smooth stones up and up.

From the landward hollow the breaking waves

are merely murmurings, and the easterly

a susurration. We climb to the top,

ever more circumspectly, with cautious knees.

The shimmering channel – narrow, treacherous –

between the mainland and the lighthouse,

reflects the tower’s shifting black on white.

Every half minute its warning bell tolls.

Conflicting tidal currents converge here –

fast seas made mild maelstrom by the wind.

Sun turns the cliffs of Puffin Island,

Priestholm, a pale, striated orange.

A trawler, with no herring gulls in tow,

passes seaward of the light. At the sea’s edge,

in her bright blue padded coat – reluctantly,

and only partly, done up against the wind –

she is scattering pebbles into the waves.

May she be safe always!