THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT

On this island there were no human ghosts, no ghosts of any ancient race.  The sea, and the spume and the weather had washed them out, washed them out so there was only the sound of the sea itself, its own ghost, myriad-voiced, communing and plotting and shouting all winter long, and only the smell of the sea, with a few bristly bushes of gorse and coarse tufts of heather, among the grey, pellucid rocks, in the grey, more-pellucid air.  The coldness, the greyness, even the soft, creeping fog of the sea, and the islet of rock humped up in it all, like the last point in space.

Lawrence/Islands, 2021