The Island.

I must.....

The path runs alongside the river from the old Lime Kiln; heather grows on one side, ferns on the other.

Where the heather and the ferns stop the rocks begin and then the path reaches the sand; at high tide there is no sand.

A boat sits, settled on the sand, its anchor is buried deeply; the shells of a few crabs lie hereabout.

Then there are rocks.

And tide pools; a few fish hurry and hide and a new path starts across the rocks through the heather that now grows high and wild entangled with the gorse.

This is the island.

There are the ruins of an old fort at its centre.

And a woman. She has walked here from the old Lime Kiln and beyond, she will walk on later.

Now she wants to eat.

If the tide turns she will stay here for the night.

And listen to the sea.

And the solitude.

  NOT formerly published in The Archives.