Pencil sketch of an acorn with curling stem

The gale took the last of the gulls' nests off the ledge on Tuesday, and yesterday I found an acorn wedged in the gutter beneath the lamp room. Nobody on this rock has seen an oak in forty years, so I can only think it rode in on the bilge of the supply boat, or in the coat pocket of the Harbour Board man who lost his temper with the winch. Its cap was still on, neat as a bishop's hat, and the stalk had wound itself round a rusted bolt as though it meant to climb.

I know what you'll say. You'll say a lighthouse is no place for growing things, and you'd be right about the salt. Still, I scraped a hollow in the peat where the spray doesn't reach and set it there, cap up, the way Father set seed potatoes in the lean-to. The curl at the top of the stem I left alone. It turns in on itself twice, a little spring, and I swear it has tightened since morning.

The beam goes round at dusk. I was up the tower when I thought I saw the stalk lean towards the glass, which is foolishness, I know, a thing with no eyes. But I stood a while anyway, watching the light sweep over the water and back over that small brown nut in its bed of stone.

I'll write again when it has two leaves. Mind the stove, and tell Mother the light is sound.

Your brother, Tom