Bragg's Island

7:15 pm. Outside, a squall
buffets our rough windmill, sending the vanes
whirling in a tight blur, enough to charge

the circuit to a single yellow bulb,
warm its filament, here inside the store.

7:20 pm. Our neighbours
from the other island step in the front,
press closed the timber door against the wind.

Saturday evening’s last visit, before
church and Sunday rest, before the close.

7:55 pm, surveying
the offerings on our tables and shelves –
gloves, boots, cloth, thread, molasses, flour, salt –

by the north wind’s amber incandescence.


  1. Short link -

  2. Superb written quality as usual. Excellent!


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