The lighthouse cat was called Marie. She kept the lamp above the sea. She wound the clock and swept the stair and dozed all day upon her chair.

A gull called Bert lived on the rail, and Bert had views on every gale, on every wave and every cloud, and every view was very loud.

“That wave,” said Bert, “is far too high. That cloud is wrong. That boat is shy. That fish was small. That crab was rude. That rock is in a shocking mood.”

Marie said nothing. Cats are wise. She blinked her slow and golden eyes. She let him talk. She let him tell. She heard the sea. She heard the bell.

“The tide,” said Bert, “is late again. It’s always late. I told it when. The moon is thin. It’s not my choice. I’d make it round.” He raised his voice.

“The wind,” said Bert, “is on the turn. It never learns. It ought to learn. The stars are dim. The sand is cold. And I’m not old. The rocks are old.”

Marie got up and climbed the stair and lit the lamp and left it there to turn and turn above the bay, and Bert came up to have his say.

“That beam,” said Bert, “is far too bright. It’s very white. It’s very light. It goes around and round, I’ve found, and round again. It’s much too round.”

Marie sat down beside the light. Bert perched and grumbled at the night, and out at sea, a mile or more, the boats came slowly back to shore.

“Those boats,” said Bert, and then he stopped. His head went down. His feathers dropped. He tried again. “Those boats are… fine.” Marie said, “Yes. They’re back in line.”

“The sea,” said Bert, “is quite all right. The moon is… good. The moon is right. The wind,” he said, and gave a yawn, “can stay. I’ll check on it at dawn.”

He tucked his beak beneath his wing and did not say another thing. Marie sat close. Marie sat still. The beam went round, the way it will.

And round it went, and round, and slow, across the water, to and fro, a cat, a gull, a lamp, a sea, and nothing left to disagree.