We lived at the edge of the sea where sand and water lay and overlay, where quietly tectonic plates are grinding rocks to sand. Moonlight stippled tinselly on wavelets stirred up by the breeze. The scene topside, in darkness, was bright as by day — a blue sailboat, sea, and a sky streaked in silver, all danced underneath translucent clouds. Then purple and black came in and blurred the scene. It grew dark around, all up above and out to sea; shadows were revealing little, ghostly fragments set a mood. A little light came from the house but made no difference in the dark. My mind would not concede to darkness, though; so my thoughts assembled nymphs at play to suit—
Galatea, sea-foam blown in a wind surf,
Limnoreia, sad at the salt-marsh edge,
Psamathe, a sanderling’s sea-kiss.
Dreams of loafing on the shore far from view and the whole of darkness and sea-blackness set me wondering. Out in the darkness, a sailboat’s rigging jingled and the yellow dot of a lamp swung in an arc atop the mast, a silent metronome counting the sea swells. Were they getting ready to sail away? I imagined the boat’s blue striped sail unfurl in the same breeze that was bending the trees.
Charles Tarlton has a Ph.D. from the University of California at Los Angeles and lives now in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. His work has been seen in Rattle, Blackbox Manifold (UK), London Grip (UK), Illanot Review (Israel), and 2River.