Even this far north ‘Midnight sun’ a misnomer,
its vermilion orb already dipped below the horizon as the haar comes in on the
tide, thickening a silence broken only by the gentle huff of foam rearranging
stones; the melancholy piping of invisible oyster-catchers.
Then your voice, inappropriate as a cockatoo,
‘Wanna halfa orange?’ You divide one then hand me both knife and dripping
semi-sphere, turn your half inside-out and begin slurping at its pulp.
The
knife is sharper than the orange flesh, but sweeter still the thought that Ann
Cleeve’s Jimmy Perez is about to have another murder to solve.
No comments:
Post a Comment