Down by the foot of the lane where it met the sea, he stooped down on his haunches and watched the moon lift out of the womb of the sea. She came up beyond the strip of land that neatly enclosed the harbour, thrusting out an arm from east to west. And he saw how the moon sent a pencil of light across the water, and how the little waves danced and twinkled, and lit and went out, beyond the shoals.
He got up, went down to the end of the little wooden jetty, sat down, his feet hanging over the water, leaned his back against a jutting pile.
The sea moved, like a body overtaken with slumber, breath coming and going, like a woman dreaming about her lover in sleep, sighing, moving a little under the sheets. He let his head rest against the pile, and his eyes went out to sea.
The waves made lap-lap against the piles, a shoal of sprats went swish-swish in the water as they were chased by some bigger fish. Moonlight made lines of wavy writing in quicksilver, the parallel, broken, undulating ripples running straight across the bay.
He closed his eyes, let his thoughts go, his mind a near blank, and felt them wash over him with the rhythm and sound of water.
–Roger Mais, Brother Man
