John MacBrayne

Tideline I, Loch Fyne

Midsummer, the pub has closed, it is very late and almost dark. You row away from shore. The oars make a weirder, weightier plash, the waves sound a shade heavier. So you ship the oars and shine a bright light downwards. Below you, all around you, the blue green water is in bloom. Jellyfish, millions of moon jellyfish quivering. You barely drift. Midsummer, teeming, turquoise water; this was how people invented the idea of magic.

Years later when you fall in love, lying in a tangled bed, in a noisy sodium-lit city, this is the story you will tell to bewitch your sweetheart.

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