The Island

I know this place well by day,
but the waves speak a different tongue by night.
The sand hisses at passers-by as the tide subsides
to reveal a tempting path otherwise hidden from sight.

As I tread, the moon watches my every step
as the soft cushion of sand fades into the remnants
of an ancient volcano.

There's an audience out tonight.

Shards of moonlight dance upon the damp rocks
as crabs scurry about, picking apart their nightly feed.
Remnants of an old iron cart wheel lay rusted at the edge of reality
between the glowing tide and shimmering sand.
Rockpools filled to the brim; a prison for those caught within
until the morning sun lights the way.

But the night wants more.
"There's more to see in the dark.
You can hear her better over there,
right by the place you saw her last."

And so I walk - unwillingly so.

As the waves curse,
I taste the salt they spit my way.
The thieving air robs my body of heat
and conspires with my jacket zipper to fail.
Stray clouds interrupt the moon
and suddenly, all that's left are the curses.
And her whispering voice.

I know where I'm not.
We know where I shouldn't be.
She knows where she brought me.

All that's left is to climb.

The clouds move on and the moon apologises for the night.
The waves become deafening as the rocky ground shudders
with every break upon the steep cliff over yonder;
and that's where she stands - right at the brink of war.

Smiling, like nothing is wrong.
Smiling like it's day time, like the curses are songs.
Teetering on the same edge as before:
flirting with the jagged pillows below,
unaware of the endless nights to come.

I know this place well by day,
but I know it better at night.