Lewis: 23 hour power cut

I saw the lighthouse in Lewis, only once. 

It was lived in by an old woman,
mad local I was told,
and a dead dog left
on one
of the far beaches -
a place where sheep
went to die and you kneeled
with Sullivan to make a fire.

I saw the lighthouse by chance;
I thought there was nothing in Lewis.
It was just sounds, no heat, no fire 
but you, striking a light at dusk.

A test of will power and reason,
the water boiled
over and in my
second best
saucepan, we
brewed tea.

And it seemed as if we were meant to go,
keep warm and eat in the pub that evening,
and a goat was supposed to chew our window ledge
and a hungry neighbour
and his marmalade sandwich
were destined for the Kid.

It seemed,
In that small moment,
bringing home the bones
of a Ram’s head, years later, after dinner,
that everything made sense.

And the lighthouse
was from the future.

I held the Ram’s head to the light
and looked through
its eyes like
windows

and realised the death rattle 
was the sound of teeth
in an empty skull.