In the old stone house above the harbour,

however well sealed the windows are

against the rain and the wind, squalls invade

the chimneys and blow in the empty hearths.

The lamp at the end of the quay still shines

despite the waves spilling over the wall

and agitating the tethered lobster creels.

A surge douses the light – but wild clouds part

and a full moon shines on a sea running high.

Abruptly the turbulent clouds close –

and there is only a low roar, an

erratic buffeting of wind and rain,

and the wailing in the dark hearths. Absence

echoes in the blackness of each bare room.

In the pallid dawn there is no one now

to see the tumbled creels on the quay,

the lamp’s broken glass, the empty harbour,

the cormorants and the kittiwakes

flying out across a cloud grey sea –

or to conjure songs about the weathers made

beyond the horizon.