We toe-test the path before stepping off the grass. Most of it feels fine, with here and there some slippery patches. Switching off my torch, my eyes adjust to the dark. There is a glow above the dunes that could be a diffusion. The marram grass, part-covered in snow, gives off a light of its own.
The sand is part-frozen and the port’s lights shimmer on the water. When we reach the softer sand where the sea retreated only minutes before, the small crest of the moon is behind us in the sky among stars and planets, glittering in amber, red, yellow and blue.
Looking up, I remember the words of my late, distant cousin.
“The strange thing was, when the bombs came raining down … all I could hear was this nightingale singing.”
A few people have set up tripods, start shooting away. Others stand in awe, watching what unfolds before us. My tripod stays under my arm, my camera in my bag. I don’t want to miss a single moment.
tingling hair—
within the icy wind
pink aurora
© Xenia Tran
Contemporary Haibun Online, Issue 19.1, April 1, 2023
These photographs are from Sunday night, when the clouds parted long enough for us to see the northern lights again. I was too mesmerised to take any photos on the night referred to in the poem.
Wishing you all a wonderful Wednesday and a peaceful rest of the week,
with love from Xenia xxx
Photographs by Xenia Tran, edited in lr.
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