BEFORE THE LIGHTHOUSE (1796)

They named it Coal Hill and said it was a sand heap,
but we knew Candy Mountain where lovers meet
at night, wander down winding rabbit tracks
to the sea. Light up the beach with kisses, 

forbidden fires of drift wood, sea weed. Your hand
glowing when you twirled a torch around and around.
They said the Danish King ordered coal to be lit
for sea safety, to warn the Hansa merchant ships  

from Lubeck and Hamburg already in 1222. Rich
times. Herring so thick in the water women and children
fished with their hands. Did His Royal Highness know
monks are scared of the Devil? Sleep indoors at night?  

You told me of your old relative who died
in 1624. On his gravestone he was a sea captain.
Some Captain, you said. More a bloody pirate if you ask
me. He came here to Candy Mountain, lit illegitimate fires  

to lure the ships to shallow waters where they foundered
and broke apart. Men died quickly in those days. We stole
gold, food, brandy from France, took their boots and jewels.
How do you think we came to own our long house, 

my family poor fishermen, and kept it for five centuries
between frost and salt? This here, like the land and you,
have never been bought or sold. In the palm of your hand,
a shiny piece of amber, a gift and an answer.

NIXES MATE REVIEW. Issue 23. Spring 2022