The Artist’s Commission
It was a wild December sea,
there was no light.
Seagulls sheltered on land,
spray filled the sky.
His hands bled
and this fine jacket on his back
was an old, ripped cloak
he pulled from the hook
before running to the shore.
She was never this beautiful
and she swore worse than the men,
but her hair was black
and the lighthouse beam that dim.
You will point her out with your cigar,
dinner guests will admire her painted calm.
I will buy potatoes,
perhaps cheap wine,
pay the rent.
Fiona Ritchie Walker
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