I think, perhaps, maybe, I’m not too sure;
the sea has more waves on it than normal.
Crests of white, too many to count. And gulls,
riding thermals, the likes they’ve never felt.
Not sure, Molly, if this says change is here,
or trouble. I hold the walkie-talkie
and think of William. Should I tell him this?
No. He will see it soon enough I’m sure,
and if I am needed, he will tell me.
Ships that avoid us seem further off too;
specks on an agitated horizon.
Our lighthouse must be no more than a star.
A winking warning of consternation,
a pinprick lost from its constellation.
Today, Runt told me I was dead to him
because restless waves don’t yield too much fish.
I came to you, Molly, and cried it out,
but your eyes told me; take it on the chin.
Without you my love, I am far t
