The Mists of Dawn

It is the time where the black, velvety night blurs with the grey dawn. The beach is enveloped in a soft, grey mist from the sea. Sand slips from beneath my feet, as I walk the dunes. Near the edge of the water it is hard and packed. A lone seagull wheels in the sky, so far above it is no more than a black pinprick. It's lonely cry drifts down to echo mournfully around me. The blue-grey waves crash down to diminish and retreat from the sand.

There are many broken shards and pieces of coloured shells sprinkling the wet sand. They crunch beneath my feet as I walk down to the lapping water. A wind arises, whispering through the casuarinas and grabs at the sea so that salty spray is flung into the air. A wisp of my chestnut hair flicks in front of my face, showing the direction of the wind. The nuts of the casuarina roll down the dunes some stopped by sand, others finding their way to the sea as the wind pushes them. Sand rises to whip around my ankles. More seagulls join the first, from their invisible resting places, and they dance gracefully in the sky, the wind taking their wings and carrying them where it wills. Suddenly one dives in a vertical swoop to touch the sea, and a spray of water shoots up from where it lands.

The ebbing water reveals black rocks that stand out, stark against the soft blue-grey sea. Fading moonlight dances on the water, creating a moon-path on the sea, as the first timid rays of the sun flicker over the watery horizon. A white-breasted sea eagle soars high into the sky, it's form edged in pale light. It floats over the mountains, crying it's harsh lonely song that mingles with the gulls'.

The immortal sound of the white foamy waves crashing down to join the rest of the water merges with the light patter of rain on the sand and sea and the calls of seabirds. The wind pushes the rain sideways, so it is swept into the sea. The sickle moon's light fades and the sun becomes bolder, bathing clouds in the east in a pink-yellow light, rays of light creeping one-by-one over the horizon. Seabirds walk with a clumsy gait, and flap their ungainly way off the ground, to soar high and graceful up to the rosy heavens. Many groups of myriads of tiny forms fly high, each to their own course. Their cries, falling and echoing, to be swept away in the wind, and disappear into the mists of dawn.

October 2003