On

Send us Fan MailOn On the last cusp of evening, just before the hush of dusk dances the last dance, through the speckled sunlight,amongst the flickering branches,beneath the peach and blossom, the fall of a late summer sky, if you listen, if you listen carefully, and in the timeit takesto cross the footbridge, over the stream that empties itself,out beyond the woodland, into the vastness of sand, of beach and the slow tides of retreating time, if you walk over the bridge and look out,to the west, to the retreat of sea and memoryacross to the estuary, the lowest of tides, in the time it takes to look over the edge of the world, where mountains fall in ancient legends into the sunset, into the reaching the waves and stairways to the emptying of the sun the last of these passing of days, if you listen beyond the distant cries of waves, listen,behind the calls of the lost and drifting calls of the curving, rising, falling spirals of hills, you can hear the call of buoys and bells, the passage and rumble of ships that leave and heave in throbs and smoke beyond the river to the greater skies beyond, and there,in the middle distance, between the now and then,before and after, there and hereyou can feel the touch of sea, and air, wave and sand, the wrinkles and ripples, of tides and time, the touch of silver-gold and yellow, the ochre red of a deepening dark of a new coming the wave of nightand star, moon and light, just there is where you canvanish into yourselfbeyond your selfin the unanswered vastness of an empty [email protected]