text: On a rock this forgotten a lighthouse is needed, but on a rock this forgotten the lighthouse keeper is forgotten too. He leaves his front door open, the thin old door banging about in the storm; salty wind blowing straight off the sea and stirring the light objects in his room into open rebellion: unsecured papers lift up into the room and dip like birds, and the lighthouse keeper sits and plays his piano slowly, as if to calm things down. The rain blows in too, and mingles with the sea spray on the threshold, and taps on the windows. The music is hesitant and tinged with sadness and the lighthouse keeper almost looks as if he’s asleep, but his fingers keep moving. Outside, the waves build and combine, mash into each other and twist into foamy messes, or rear up over a submerged rock, and curl up into dumping waves that pop and boom along the rocks. No beam of light passes across the sea, because ships have stopped coming this way: the lighthouse keeper stopped turning the light on years ago. This night, however, the lighthouse keeper looks out of his front door as he finishes playing a bar of music and the next note hangs in the air, desperately needing to be played, but it hangs; the music stays unresolved. The lighthouse keeper stares, frozen. Out there, pitching, leaning, rocking, a ship is struggling in the grey chaos. It is mostly shadow, but a single light on that ship shines through the sheets of slanting rain. Just for a moment, the lighthouse keeper watches the light ride up and down, and watches it tip, and disappear behind high waves; then he jumps up and hurries up the spiralling staircase, puffing. It is harder than he remembers, and he leans heavily on the cold iron handrail. At the top he can see the ship better: it looks like it will survive the storm, but it is heading straight for the lighthouse, and the jagged rocks beneath. The ship is getting closer and closer and the lighthouse keeper swears at himself as he works; but soon the light starts up and a beam of light, getting brighter and brighter with each pass, punches through the rain and out towards the ship; and the ship sees, and makes a dramatic, veering manoeuvre, dangerous in the heavy sea; but passes unscathed, now parallel to the shore, and soon disappears into the dark and the weather. The lighthouse keeper makes his way down the stairs, closes the front door, and collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted. The storm carries on. In the morning it is clear and sunny. The lighthouse keeper is up early, sitting on the bed in his underwear and staring down at the space between his feet. Eventually he gets dressed and steps out his front door, leaving the door open again, this time drinking in the warm sunrise and the lightly salted breeze blowing gently off the sea. He walks down the hill to a small dock, sheltered amongst rocks, where a small boat waits. Most of his belongings are in a heavy waterproof bag which he put on this boat a few days ago, and he awkwardly hefts this bag up onto his shoulder and carries it back up the hill. He walks in through the front door and dumps the bag right in the middle of the room, sits down at the piano, and picks up from where he left off the night before. Outside, sea birds make their noises and small waves break against the rocks.