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.
By David Selzer