Reblogged from Peter Bouchier:

The flood almost runs out in the late summer afternoon. A dinghy negotiates seaweed-grown, swell-caressed rocks. Moss-topped, wet shining stone organ pipes reflect seagulls’ cries. The dinghy tacks, the evening sun yellows its sails depicted against the dark cave washed by a rushing surf.

There is no-one aboard. Independently as a living creature the little boat drops its sails and comes to anchor in Fingal’s Cave. The ground tackle holds behind a suitcase-shaped rock. The ebb starts to run, causing the boat to sway behind its anchor chain.

Two clicks echo between the cave walls harshly framing the narrow creek, the boat perfectly keeping clear. Down below, the rock starts moving to a new sound that gradually turns into a crisp, whispering, humming melody. Low strings swirl around, blending into far away winds and rolling timpani. Outside the cave, gulls cannot help dancing to the music that slowly grows into a symphony. The dinghy’s elegant dance is caressed by the sunset. Eventually it weighs anchor; the music dies as the little boat sets sail.

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