Dandelion with drifting seeds on the back

The wind has gone round to the west again, and the dandelions along the cliff path have all gone to clock at once. I counted nine heads on the wall of the lamp-room yard this morning, every one of them bald as an egg by noon. You always said the trick was to blow hard and make a wish, but I have never once managed to send a wish off in the direction I meant. They go where the air wants them, which is out over the water and up past the light.

Mr Pryce from the signal station came up the hill with the post on Tuesday and swore the clocks were a sign the fishing would turn. I told him the fishing turns when it likes, same as the tide. He laughed, ate two of the scones you sent with the last parcel, then showed me how to pinch a stalk so the seeds come away in a single breath. I have been practising on the step every evening since, with the lamp not yet lit and the gulls quarrelling over the rocks.

I am sending you the last clock I could find that was still whole, pressed flat between these pages so it will not blow off in the post. Keep it somewhere dry. When the boats come round the point in March, stand at your window and blow, and I will know which way the wind was running on your side of the country, even if I never see it.