The small boat had turned
outward from the headland
into the grey field
of the Atlantic

when my phone buzzed
in my raincoat pocket:
another death
broke on the networks.

The main mast swung
like a metronome
as we swayed and turned
further into the wind.

The back white wall
was awash with emotion.
It rolled downward,
endlessly in slipstream.

One gull hung
in the uncrowded sky
as we kept on course
for the island – away

beyond the last beach
and the long reach
of call and response
and tumult, to go

where the word the breaks
on the steady prow
is ploughed back down
to the undertow.