An ancient ruin looms along a seaside cliff. Salty spray strikes stone; the cliff solid sits, turning not its face. Music, a percussive swash slaps and spumes while flurried winds flute and harp of warmer climes. The lighthouse atop the outcrop beams back at the moon and silvery sea. Pixie shapes likes shadow flames caper here, amongst the fairy lanterns and footsteps of spring, the poppy and the pimpernel, a lilting aria almost audible, or do the grasses simply swish?
High and low crest the tides below, faintly distinguished against the night owl's saxophone, the cricket violin. Everything is familiar and not, and you wonder if it's all real, knowing it's more than real, it is a truth. And the shooting stars above contemplate those below, a love ne'er brighter shone.
Celestial, empyrean domain, beatifically displayed in the overlapping waves, the churning brine that clasps tight those behemoths of the deeps, the lantern fish and bovine manatees, or those angled beasts of jagged teeth, fins. Ionized particles charge along the horizon, patterning the world's edge in crimson and green. This is only a night, only a dance of dreams.
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