August sky and swallows fly like arrows through the chill.

Darkness here brings the dreamers,

flying along the coastline,

low to the water,

capping the crests with their mercurial breasts.

In the night they are shadows removed from the darkness,

tiny arrows of absence,

leaving stillness in their wake and the faint flutter of motion

like the softly cracked tip of a whip suspended through time.

In the morning they are shining and you can see yourself in them,

the smallest possible flash of you,

a retinal flicker of colours blurred with speed.

And if you follow their cracked wake by quickly moving your head from side to side,

you can catch a longer moment,

and it looks as if you can see through them into another land.