Tuesday, 27 January 2009

Night runs in

Black mountains rush in, spill out from a flooding sky. They loom above dark spaghetti pools of thin weed, slow to swirl, lazy in the last light. And the night runs in to scoop up the Mermaid's purses and gather the strange cindery charcoal-dull rounds of old wood, moulded and tumbled on a guttered sea bed beneath the cracked ribs of a burnt out pier, like they can fuel a night of raging fire. In my black clothes, the monstrous sky swallows me up, and I am cloaked, invisible.