Butterfly and roses across the stomach

The roses on the chapel wall opened the week after your boat left without you, which I have decided is the sea's way of apologising. Mrs Kerrow says they are the last of the old stock Grandfather planted when the mainland still sent a supply ship every fortnight, and I believe her, because nothing else on Scarrow grows that stubbornly.

The butterfly turned up in the wash-house on Tuesday, sheltering from the wind against the copper. It was a dark one, grey and black, with wings patterned like the lace on Mam's good tablecloth, every vein picked out in a line so fine I thought someone had drawn it with a pin. It sat on the bucket handle for most of the morning. I did not touch it. I only watched it open and close, and I thought of you on the trawler, out past the Skerry lights, trying to keep your hands warm enough to tie a knot.

Leaves have crept up the wall beside the roses, broad and serrated, almost winged at the edges where the wind has worked them. I cut two of the roses for the windowsill and they are already dropping petals onto Father's chair, which I have not moved.

The Thursday boat is sailing early, so I am posting this on the quay with the butterfly's old place in the wash-house swept clean. If you come home before the frost, I will show you where it was. Mind your hands on the rope.

Your sister, Morwenna