It is early November; latitude 51 degrees north, longitude 4 degrees west, our temporary fix on earth. Inside Mor Awelon we sit together questioning the wisdom of those who dared build this house full-frontal to the Atlantic.

 

Outside, the south-westerly wheezes like an accordion, sashes battling, rain nailing against the window panes.

 

powerline swaying

a pair of wood pigeons

wooing and cooing

 

Towards dusk, the electricity fails so we hunter-gather candles: scented candles from the bathroom, striped birthday candles, crimson Christmas candles, elegantly tapered dinner-candles, tea lights – whatever we can find to feel our way around as the natural light gives-out. We watch them flicker and spread their tallow glow through the growing gloom of late afternoon.

 

You wrap me in a carthen on the sofa and fill me a hot-water bottle to cwtsh. You sit in your battered and faded leather chair by the fireside in silence, earplugs in, lost to that tinny transistor radio of yours with the bent aerial.

 

against the slaked-lime chimney breast

your shadow

much larger than your face

 

I am drawn to your profile thrown against our freshly painted wall – the utter stillness of it: without an eyelash flutter, without the slightest movement of a single muscle. From time to time, you sigh, glance across and smile. We don’t say a word but wonder when the switch will flick back on, realising here in the murk that there are some things we might take too much for granted.

 

a pair of candlesticks

transfixed by burning wicks

the trickling wax