It was late afternoon when I came upon this beach.
The golden sands and iridescent waters a surprise at this latitude.
Discarding shoes I felt the warm sand squeezing between my toes
as I walked along the high-water mark.
The demarcation between that which is regularly inundated
and that which remains forever dry.
Sitting on a small, sandy headland where grass
clings to an existence and the Marram grass fringes the edges,
I watched the sun make its daily rendezvous with the horizon.
The moon blinks its way onto the world.
The clouds part and the countryside below
is cloaked in its soft silvery light.
Edges are no longer sharp but rounded.
Life is much softer.
A quiet descends.
Sounds that are usually masked by the
shrill and busyness of the day
can be heard once more.
Far off sounds travel further.
The motorbike climbs the track road,
its headlight piercing the gathering gloom of approaching evening.
Winding its way through the long forgotten ramparts
of this hill fort it finds its way to the top.