VISION ON THE SHORE

The tide was out.
On the shore below the layered, crumbling cliff where the fulmars rattle, raise their chicks and make stiff-winged sorties out and back for no good reason I can see, a thin mist veiled the distant coast, and all was grey, shiny wet and still.
So still. So grey. So shiny wet. And not a soul in sight.
I fancied, on that deserted shore, a shape approaching, slouching and bedraggled as one who had been drowned. Bloodless now, completely white, with bones beneath the threadbare flesh, and eyes - black eyes - huge in that skull-like head, and lips as soft as pulp.
As the phantom neared, it raised its arms, and whispered as though its voice were waves dragging pebbles down a beach and turning them to sand.
The words it formed were hard to hear; the sound was indistinct. Then all at once I understood. It said: "Go back! This is not the way for you. Go back and save your life."
Was that my father's voice! My father from his grave?
I cleared my eyes. The layered and crumbling cliff loomed high; a thin mist veiled the distant coast, and not a soul in sight.
And no: I won't turn back.
It's too late now to save my life.