A sturgeon moon is rising through wispy cloud,

making the waters of the bay a rippling,

molten orange. Out of sight, above the cliffs,

on pastureland bordered by oakwoods, a pair

of tawny owls is hunting amongst

the sleeping sheep, the owls’ long calls

trilling through the dark. A heron, with its

harsh cry, is crossing the moon’s fervid wake.

A small boat chugs into the bay, the searchlight

at its bow scoping the jutting rocks

the spring tide is covering. There is a sudden,

mechanical splutter, a muffled oath,

silence, the waves’ soft fall – then the tinkering

of metal. Meanwhile, the moon and the earth

have turned. Somewhere, like silvery submarines,

atlantic sturgeon lurk. On the far headland

is the white tower of a ruined windmill.