Talisker.

Wrapped in quilts we rose to the sea. We made our home in the mist and fog. We tramped the clifftops back to tea and warmed our nights with a burning log.

A cottage without sink or stove, lit by paraffin. A minch giving to distant islands we saw them on clear days, cabochons on jeweller’s baize. Fog suspended us in its privacy. Our days ran like this: fetch wood, the sappy chunks nipping the forearm; crumple the news, build the warmth between us with yesterday’s waste. New tasks trample the husks of old. You showed me that, each day’s death forgotten in the new kindling. We wrapped in sweaters and quilts. When the porridge fluttered, gasped its rich breath, We sprinkled sugar, watched it melt in the milk. Then with our bellies hot, the outdoor day was a crust we broke off with one snap and tossed to the seabirds down on the rocks.