Beach at night

This is a treacherous road, and I don’t even have a torch with me. You shuffle along carefully and a pothole trips you, then stride purposefully without incident until it’s your nerve that fails you: it’s bloody typical. I’d be better off walking along the beach - at least the shingle is consistently uneven. 

So I do. The concourse of stone is illuminated by some damn fine moonlight and a smattering of stars. With the wall of night behind me it’s like being on a stage, the moon a disco ball, the starlight scattered across the waves. The light bounces around, shines on my face. 

The sea is a broken mirror sealing a door. Is the light from the sky or is daylight from the other side pushing in? Maybe if some of the people carved out up there left their posts for a while to explore, the animals would have their chance to shine, and there would be some clarity. 

In daylight there would be fishermen, casting a lure to catch the unwary. Transpose the writhing underbelly and you’ll see a legend of land pulled up by a fish-hook, a precious gift. But it is night, and this beach is resolutely night right now, and any fishermen unseen are keeping their own counsel, as I keep mine. 

Dark night, day light. So black and white at first glance, but this night is so white and that light so black that the days and nights bleed together. It’s only fitting then that they compete before me, one trying to overwhelm the other, spook their opponent with an unexpected current. It’s hard to tell who’s winning, as the foam clawing at the shoreline keeps falling back, changing colour.

The mirror pulses, broken fragments overlay. Or are the reflections a window? Is this a shining to the other side, where the sun glows, seagulls frost a rock, waves crash in reverse? The troubled surface puzzles at me in the unclear night, poses a question as it slips it away. You might campaign for this darkness, to see these stars provide illumination, but I can only see the door, the window, the fragments of a home caught in shadow.