Winter Nocturne



An insipid winter sun slips under the horizon. The air is chilled into stillness. A few sea birds are calling, their cries desolate in the murk. Such quietness befits a winter's evening. The headlands are great dark stacks rising from the ocean. Not friendly forms, but ominous lumpen shapes that menace and lurk.

Walking alone on such a night, there is the relief of isolation. There is peace, no human sounds disturb the tranquillity. I am an animal of the planet, attendant to its forces, hesitant in the darkness.
            Forlorn seabird cries
        Pale moons rising     in their eyes
               at the shifting shore

My footsteps  crunching on the sand, broadcast my presence to the legions of sea creatures who slither and dive in the mess of seaweed and plastic flotsam. Accustomed to the junk, I hardly notice my legacy to the world. My footsteps leave heavy imprints — the jackboots of a thug in the spawn.

            spoilt integrity       bearing

                                         Non-biodegradable
                     shame-faced forfeiture
A kindly moon rises — almost full, a waxing gibbous. It silver-gilds the rooftops of the houses along the shore. As it climbs in the sky I gain the company of a moon-shadow. The spectral twin of one that I could be, that chases me through the decades crying;

“if only you had been less voracious!”
A heavy wave crashes in, soaking my feet and I jump, aware at last, of the white foam and the silver shards tinkling on the ocean. The quietness is shattered utterly and the night becomes hectic. The clouds scud across the moon, as it makes its steady ascendance. The waves break onto the sands creeping up the shoreline to a lunar beckoning. My way is lit and my steps are sure.

I am clambering over the rocks, wet jagged edges sparkle treacherous and challenging. A mussel shell glistens iridescent in a moonlight pool. Some slithering thing moves about industrious, in a world that I cannot fathom. Languid fronds, fan out from the extremities, of this mysterious nether world. Here is an excess of living — a pure jouissance. To think that such a pool nurtured humanity. Civilization. The notion brings sadness and with melancholy comes speculative contemplation.

I wish that I was an octopus, a cephalopod. Oh to be spineless! and to ooze into miniscule spaces. To be a master of disguise. To change the colour and texture of my skin — to blend with alien terrain. An octopus has an opulent five hundred million neurons in every arm. Oh to see, to smell and think without the tyranny of the brain. As an octopus I would cavort and make mischief with the ebb and flow of the ocean currents. There would be underwater ballet and great escapes. Time would be a drift. Not a prison.

Some car lights pick out my form, framed in the spotlight I am roused from my reverie. The moon is eclipsed by heavy clouds, and no longer guides. Chilled to the bone, I rise stiffly from my perch, and dig my hands into my pockets. In truth, I am more of a crab. Furtive, and anxious in the black night.



©JenniferRedmond2020