The rhythm insistent, set by the oars dipping and sweeping the grey. Fingers,
tendrils, a seaweed of mists easing the hull onto shore. Sand and shingle, skindistinguishable, barefoot whispers, soles exposed, first hand, second hand, we find the way onto the headland.
Weary, at the top of the hill, we seek sanctuary in coarse confines, rough edges smooth enclose us. Rafters, stone, brick, essentials. Solid. Real. Almost certain we are here. Looking past me through the night black glass, red lights twitch descent beyond the high-rise, the whole town darkened, except here, in the yellow glow, where the light gets in…
Where The Light Gets In
7 Rostron Brow