The moon was a slit, a cut, an upturned smile but vertical. It gave no light. It is waning, dying. A last hurrah. I walked with a longing for its heyday. The wind pushed me back, not hard but insistent. They’ve cut back the lavender on North Road. No more running my fingers through to grab at the smell. The sea rolled and churned up white, foaming. As I draw a figure come out of the darkness. A woman. She walked on. No birds. No sound except for the rustle of leaves.
