On nights such as these,

when a north-easterly

lashes the cove,

like then,

she visits me.

I leave a light in the window

and huddle by the fire,

counting the minutes until

I sense her shadow at the sill.

I will tell her again

how much I love her

and pray she may whisper,

‘Come, father,

to my grave beneath the sea.’

© 2017 James Hanna-Magill