The tide was rising and, as we crouched pressing seaweed to wet paper at the edge, the rain came; heavy, relentless, whipping the water into pimples. The hills were swallowed by mist and we were quickly wet through, rain running through the roots of our hair and down our spines. We dropped ink around weed until our fingers were red with cold. The rain kept coming, spackling the paper and making new puddles dance. Later, as dusk crept in, we squelched through mud to the mouth of the estuary. The land was still lit but the water was darkening from pale grey to blue, to pewter, to steel. The mountains were black, their hulking bulk reflected in ink. We found whitewash lichen spots on the slate as the light fled. The clouds spun, dark in the water, peach banded across the sky. Cloud streets rose from the horizon to hover in mid air, indigo shifting to black. Lights popped on over the water in Barmouth and bats, tiny and trembling, swooped in the amber sky.
Bonnie Radcliffe 