The Archive

Sunday, 14 September 2014


And the sunset, tending the roofs of slanted clay, grew deeper. A chime, a howling chime that lacked the propensity of an echo, sang with a sad disposition. The trebles hung irritably in the air. The buoyed docks sighed with the teasing beat of the waves, washed clean of barnacles and grime. There, the chime. Towards the docks, this tantalising curiosity compels you. A swish of the wind and the fog draws close, and a benevolent, harsh darkness ensues. The sun, eclipsed by the booming cloud, remains intact elsewhere; but not here, not where you stutter forwards, striking your hand in desperation, grasping for that last chime. You fade as the chime itself fades, and drift, ceaselessly, into the swell. There is water in the air, and there is water under foot; chattering waves mingle, but you persist, ignorant. The chime stops. The clock runs slow, and it is time. The tide rambles on, and so do you.


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