We sheltered in the lee of the lighthouse
at what was once the end of the world,
the caliphate, for half a millennium.
Lovers still, we watched the squall move eastwards,
obscure the Sagres promontory –
whose fort’s white walls hold the Navigator’s
stone anemometer: shaped like a compass rose,
big as a bull ring, grooved like a millstone.
His caravels outflanked Islam, rounded,