It was my lucky day. New beach grass darted, herring-bright, before the wind by the Highland Light. The swan wings’ turbine rush whistles white on the darkling dusk. Shooting star, path – oh, oh, oh, Look! – long enough for you to wish on half-a-skies twinkling dust.
Side-armed dash dash / dot dash, a man skips rocks at sunset, puts some topspin on that message before it sinks.
The delicate lace hiss of low tide drawn over small sand, wind push and moon pull cancelled, baked flat in the noon-time bay.
mid-day snail trails shimmer ghost silver perpendicular across the two-by-four grey grain planks to the water