Soft, the sun’s final light dapples through the ivy-strung trellis, dispersing through the crosses of wood and the thin, green veins of the fluttering leaves, as if these heavy photons are the source of the gentle movement and not the salty Mediterranean breeze rolling up the sides of the cove. Far below, the deep lagoon, running out to a warm and lazy sea, is encapsulated by the mottled white cliffs, themselves intercut with the hewed stone of the village that sits brightly on the wind-beaten edge. All glitters by the sun’s setting rays; twinkles of gold, bronze and copper.
He feels the warmth of the sun on the side of his face, as well as the warmth of the food in his belly and the warmth of the wine on his thoughts. His tired eyes are closed, so his ears are made sensitive to the distant wash of the sea and the slow rumple of cloth in the breeze and the muffled laughter of the children in the house. He feels the warmth of his wife’s lips touch his cheek and the wrinkle of her smile there, before she is gone and he is alone on the cliff-side balcony. Exactly where he wants to be.
Paddy Dobson
14th September 2020