She is a god of knots.
His socks are Spanish Bows
and in the night the doors
are secured with a tight Sheep Shank,

china cups hang on Artillery Loops
and she twists her own hair
when she worries, pulls it
over and around and then through

and around again until it hangs
in a Jury Mast and some nights,
when the door is tight, she gets him
in a Carrick Bend and whispers

about the old Bill Hitch
and all the time he hopes
she’s tied herself up
enough to stay the storm.

First published in Oxford Poets 2010: An Anthology (2010) and revised for Tomorrow, We Will Live Here, 2010.