Tiny hands pass from pot to pot,
steam warbling in the salt air.
The girl-child pours porridge into a chipped china bowl.

His old cap resides upon the peg, tipped forward
in his gentleman’s bow.

Wolf snores, his throaty grumble
a remark to the waves hissing over the rocks below.
The girl-child’s fingers skip from oil lamp, apron,
the seasoned hatch, a toppling load of wood
to keep that small hearth aglow for the old cap.

She digs scallops from buckets of brine,
slits them from their shells,
lures and pearls in her hair.
Wolf’s ears flicker at the scent,
at the girl-child’s skirts,
at something in the water below.

And there was hearth light upon the buttons of the cap
and lamp light and the light of the stars on the sea-crests
but there,
far far out,
through the green-stained port glass
and the froth of the storm
the girl-child saw a light.