The hillsides are quiet.
Vines forgotten and gone, remembered but waiting.
The bay empty, silent too.
An air of withdrawal settled on the streets.
Fish stalls are looking for boats, bookshop looking for next month when someone visits.
Fresh words to be laid alongside those too tired to trouble.
The church is closed.
Only the café has a crowd.
A crowd that is happy with the absence of both urgency and purpose.
A backwater somewhere near the border, that no one real cares about except those that do, and are there.
The lady who twists ceramics into sardines, wire into cages and wood into her pallet.
The gentleman next door who polishes his saxophone and then plays the clarinet instead.
The three children who sit on the jetty and throw bread to the fish.
Me.
A gull cries.
Another answers.
The statue of Mary watches from the mound behind the lighthouse.
She holds an anchor in her outstretched arms, the rope plaited and turned around her hands.
Her eyes distant.
Her heart at rest.
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