Seahouses

She walked after dinner towards the harbour, the light of Farne Island lighthouse beating like a heart against the slow evening. Where the town grew from red stone over the beach she saw darkness rising. The houses sank into it brick by brick. She imagined the halls inside swimming in blue shadow. One at a time lights went on in windows. She thought: behind one a woman is setting forks carefully beside brown plates, in another a man sits on a bed, sewing buttons on his shirt. As a young girl, she had gone clam digging, hanging a lamp on a pole and standing on her own white island. She turned over mud with a pitchfork to pluck clams from their safe sleep. Later, the open shells pleased her, the pale lining glowing in her hand. She believed then that if someone could force open the tight door in her ribs, she would shine too. But now, watching the dark pour over the houses, she feels it soak into rooms in her spine-- she is filled with small nights. She knows how difficult it is for people in white windows to know anything of each other, their dark passionate bodies folded separately in hard-edged light. Sudden bright flashes from the lighthouse bend briefly over the sea’s roof. They remind her of lightning. She counts the long black pauses.