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.