against the lower-storey windows of her mind’s lighthouse,

groaning, petulant, afraid of being ignored, abandoned,

looming up between her and some farther shore,

as jealous and possessive as a yearling,

Unwilling to share her,

Or to make concessions to such vague sensations

as the sense of losing something quiet in the clamour of the storm.

The waves lay siege,

But inside these four walls she is a mariner,

And she offers prayers to the small gods of the tempest,

Bartering with them for freedom, her eyes are closed,

Submarine hatches, sealed against unwelcome ingress.