Another old Shakespeare-inspired piece, though this is a piece of prose about the magical island of The Tempest.
The beach shimmers like a mirage, with a gentle golden haze about the sand and the softened sharpness of pine leaves. The seawater creeps along the shore, depositing shells when it recedes, coming in and out like air into the lungs and just as naturally. White foam bubbles up on the rocks, reaching longingly for the trees that pepper the beach. Castles of clumped sand are built by the sea, with human hands never touching them. There are no footprints on this shore.
Sunshine blistering hot and bright, and something whispers among the trees. Ghosts of the woods or ghosts of the mind? The sand soon fades into luscious green, and sometimes Miranda stands in it, alone, the blades tickling her ankles and her toes sinking into gravel. The scent of salt reeks in the air. No-one here notices it anymore. There are so very few people here and there has been no-one new in an eternity.
Sometimes it flickers, like a dream about to be forgotten in waking, and for a moment there is nothing but darkness and the chaos of nature; but then it subsides and the tranquillity returns. The sun always burns like the devil’s eyeball, and there is escape from it in the dank holes in the rock. The great lake offers no relief, it only stinks more in the blazing heat. There is little fruit to be found, and it is sour. It was not always like this; the leaves in the breeze whisper a wistful tale of life before magic warped the world. Once in a while, one leaf drops; it slides on the gusts of wind down to the sea and bobs along on the crested waves until it escapes this land once and for all.
There is a flickering amongst the waves, bright green and red and silver. It is the fishes who come to spectate, an audience to Prospero’s golden world.