Salt and Silver

The fog arrives as a soft-footed ghost, erasing the line where the grey tide breaks. The lighthouse eye is a dim, buried coal, pulsing in a hollowed-out world.

Here, the air is thick with the scent of wet stone, the brine of old shipwrecks and unsaid words. The gulls are voices without bodies, crying into a silk that will not tear.

We walk through the silver, our shadows lost, collecting the silence like sea-glass. Everything is a memory before it is gone, held in the cold, damp breath of the morning.