Along the roof
So she could see
If her husband would
be coming home
Anchored to her son
She plowed ahead
While he trawled the depths
With broken nets
The soup of grey-blue fog
The stench of stagnant waves
A sickly breeze
Cold and damp
The lighthouse lost
What light it had
The Balustrade
Along the roof
Dressed in black
She wipes her nose
From behind her veil
She looks down
To wipe her nose
