Moonlight II

Later on, the moon has moved round enough that its full light is shining through the window. This time, it seems that the footstool has picked up the occasional table's bad habits, with the added cunning (on its part, at least) that it is low enough to remain unseen in any light coming through the window.

I sit on the windowseat, and look out, and it seems that for a little while, my body is stopped by the beauty of the scene. The moon's light is now hard, and vibrant, lighting up the wet sand where the tide has gone out, and picking out the little white wavelets that are coming in from the sea. The water itself reflects the sky; a dark greyish-navy colour. The islands - little more than jumbles of rocks with an iron post on top to warn daytime sea-farers - stand out black against the water, as does Cave Point. In reality, it's Point Garry, but to a child, Adult Names have no real significance. Far better to describe things as they really are; but these names seem to stick even into adulthood.

There appear to be no clouds in the sky at all, but there are no stars either. The moon is far too bright. Sheilding my eyes with my hand, the stars eventually begin to appear. Orion has moved round, and now a small, bright star, twinkling red, has taken his place.

Opening the window again, the smell of woodsmoke has gone; everyone else is in bed at this hour. I'm the only one up, the only one awake to feel and see the beauty of the scene. I like it that way. I can be at peace with the world. There is only the noise of the waves, an occasional insomniac sea-bird, and nothing else. No cars speeding past, no groups of youths shouting to outdo each other, or girls with high-pitched neighing laughs. At this time of night, there's just me, and the beach, and Time, marked every minute by the lighthouse's neverending turn. The light doesn't seem to flash on an off; the beam picks up the moisture in the air, and you can see it, like a searchlight, as it plays over the rocks, and sand, and putting green.

I have the desire to slip outside and down onto the beach. First I'd feel the hard, chilly wood of the steps, then the colder dry sand at the top of the beach. I'd walk down below the tide-line, watching as the moonlight glistened on the water seeping into my footprints. Before going home, I'd sit for a while on the Marooned Rock, a boulder that sits some way below the high tide mark, alone on a sandy beach. It's a good rock for climbing up on as the tide comes in, rushing around it, higher and higher, until eventually it's deep enough that you can claim to be properly marooned. Then you can jump off, splashing water up inside your skirt - I, the girl who hated skirts, always wore one on the beach. It was good for carrying sand.

I'm beginning to get cold, and sleepy. I avoid stubbing my toe on the footstool again, but bump into the occasional table, which has somehow moved round to the other side of the chair since my last visit. I quietly promise vengeance upon it, then, limping slightly, I head back to bed.