The founder of the lighthouse is not here.
She walks through other streets, pausing at a café
To smoke a cigar and check the news and the forecast.
She could not stay for ever in the blinding spray
Watching the sailors being blown on to the rocks,
Listening to the rain like a long thrill on the snare:
She paid for the pilot and the camera that photographed
The bones hanging on the cliff face on the one day of the year
That catches them in the northeast light between pleats of mist.
They flew on then to the islands further west
Where sandy shores offered a landing place:
One sheltered field, an empty house, salt pastures.
To live there would call for another skill, as fine
As judging the set of milk for cheese,
A belief in the wisdom of a long view from one window.
Water came swimming inward as the tide turned.
They saw far off a stranded dog rushing madly around
A dry patch of sand that was getting smaller and smaller.
It dashed off into the water, then back to its island
Which by now had almost disappeared.