Captain of the Lighthouse The late hour trickles to morning. The cattle low profusely by the anthill where brother and I climb and call Land’s End. We are watchmen overlooking a sea of hazel-acacia-green, over torrents of dust whipping about in whirlwinds and dirt tracks that reach us as firths. We man our lighthouse – cattle as ships. We throw warning lights whenever they come too close to our jagged shore. The anthill, the orris-earth lighthouse, from where we hurl stones like light in every direction. Tafara stands on its summit speaking in sea-talk, Aye-aye me lad – a ship’s acoming! And hurls a rock at the cow sailing in. Her beefy hulk jolts and turns. Aye, Captain, another ship saved! I cry and furl my fingers into an air-long telescope – searching for more vessels in the day-night. Now they low on the anthill, stranded in the dark. Their sonorous cries haunt through the night. Aye, methinks, me miss my brother, Captain of the lighthouse, set sail from land’s end into the deepest seventh sea. 7