Golden Hour

5am, I trundle down the sandy track towards Green Bay. The chorus of oyster catcher, black bird and sparrow harmonise in the stillness of dawn.

Blurry-eyed, a sleepy yawn. The world feels soft, peaceful and sleepy with me.


The silver orb of bright moon hangs behind me, the day promises blue skies and heat.


Wading into gin-clear water, feet brushing through sea lettuce, stepping around granite rocks studded with limpet and dog whelk.

The dark water is inky and black on the surface but deep green below as a peer into the underworld, my face tingling with the chill. I swim out to a little duck-egg blue sailing boat, it's silhouette bobs on tiny golden waves as behind Tresco the sun warms the dawn sky.


I wish I could hold onto the golden hour feeling for ever, but life speeds up, the world spins on impatiently and the list of jobs line up like little folk in a queue.


Will the light of golden hour burn a memory in my mind? I hope so.





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