Lighthouse

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New year. New walk. Montrose.

Low sun over the sea, dark smudged clay clouds. In the gap between the sheds and the lighthouse curlews and oystercatchers follow a line along the shore, picking over their finds. Skin prickles, turning to face the northern arctic wind. It moans, singing along the new green, taller than me or you fence. Beyond, grain sacks strung high in the rafters swing, creaking the blackness of empty warehouse space. Outside the light becomes glassy, brilliant. A beginning.

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