Arabella, wind in your black hair,
you stole the North Sea salt from my skin;
I chase your lantern through Fife fog,
every barefoot step a psalm I can’t sing.
Your name—three bells on a moon tide—
rings louder than the bottle I broke on the pier.
If the storm takes me, let it;
my last breath will spell your silhouette
against the lighthouse wall,
a ghost I’d still kiss through the spray.