January Storm at Corbiere Lighthouse.

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~ somehwere i have never travelled,gladly beyond ~
~ any experience,your eyes have their silence: ~
~ in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, ~
~ or which i cannot touch because they are too near ~

~ your slightest look easily will unclose me ~
~ though i have closed myself as fingers, ~
~ you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens ~
~ (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose ~

~ or if your wish be to close me,i and ~
~ my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, ~
~ as when the heart of this flower imagines ~
~ the snow carefully everywhere descending; ~

~ nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals ~
~ the power of your intense fragility: whose texture ~
~ compels me with the colour of its countries, ~
~ rendering death and forever with each breathing ~

~ (i do not know what it is about you that closes ~
~ and opens;only something in me understands ~
~ the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) ~
~ nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands ~

e.e.cummings

The lighthouse, seen from the keepers cottage
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