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!