Between the Islands

Beyond the outer rocks, the open sea…
Event horizon. Foam-fringe like a white
stain on clean darkness. The delivery
of weather rumbles on into the night.
Big wind, that leans too close, testing the seams
of the house, which whimpers. Wordlessness: is this
the point? It tucks us in. Sweet dreams.
Or it bends closer, the enormous kiss
of an Atlantic low, its heavy skirts curled
round us. Starfish on the window ledge,
from strangers’ holidays. Where in the world
are we? Or out of it? We’re on the edge
more often than we think. Then one of us
is nowhere. Sorry, just to write the word
‘us’ feels presumptuous.