Words that paint pictures

Untitled Part 1

The last day of summer and yet there is no warmth left in the evening air. The sea and sky, a water color picture and its tones are almost washed away in places. The beach huts wear their bright coats of summer paint; here and there on the sand is a forgotten bucket or spade. A flag flaps in the on shore breeze. The tide slowly takes possession of the beach, rivulets of water at first then the flow increases; swirling forwards. The wind is singing its ancient song in the tall grasses of the dunes; it is buffeting the yacht’s rigging and the rhythmic metallic notes ring out across the bay. This place could be desolate but it is not, the birds sweep in dark arcs in the sky as they head home for the night. In the distance a trawler is making its way out to sea. A fisherman walks purposefully towards the jetty. Who knows what year it is; time has no meaning in a place like this. The summer is over; the sand shoes will be packed away along with memories and photographs. Night is falling and the softness of it envelopes the place, it muffles the sounds and transforms it into a darkness with the only pinpoints of light coming from the trawler, the fisherman’s lamps and the lights of the town in the distance. This night, last night, last year, a decade, a century all pass into the stillness of one night on the coast. This is the place that time forgot.