Because he walked the shore in winter,

he felt the land was his.

Because he tilted into wind-sloped rain,

instead of turning back,

he thought himself connected.

He found comfort in repetition:

the familiar beats of the sea,

the kestrel rising to its pitch

before falling on its prey.

Last light, lost in solitude and salt-blind

from sea spray, colour and cloud became bruise

and blur, which he took as a symbol –

a wound perhaps, in need of healing,

washed with water, waiting for a salve.