I went out in the last light of the day, the time that always seems to me like a Robert Frost poem, lovely and just a little melancholy. I came home in the dark. Only two bright stars were visible, too bright for beauty. And the sky, so black and cold, was stiff with silence. I was glad to get home.
But at home I felt the darkness and the cold linger within me, as if I had a night sky behind my bones. And for all the river dragons and leshys that live on this plain, it seemed far too empty for comfort. The emptiness of wide spaces and the air above the sea.
I'd rather have an old hill sky, tumbled up with stones and forests, shy-eyed witches and gnomes; the sort of sky that has risen out of shadowy tree roots and secretive vintage storybooks. But I think for a while I'm bound to be dreaming of the sea and the silence. The dark side of peace.
(Have I shared with you the photography of Vivienne Mok? I can't remember. It's ethereally beautiful; reminiscent of David Hamilton's work but with a woman's sensibility and no dubious creeping along certain boundaries.)