Night sounds

Night sounds.

An angry sea sucked up by the full moon and thrown against the rocks in a thunderous cacophony as trillions of droplets smash against each other. Liquid noise keeping me awake as swells pushed up from the approaching cold front rise and fold over just metres from home, ebbing and flowing as the spring tide rips giant kelp stalks from their rocky anchorage and dumps them like fresh-cooked spaghetti along the high tide mark, to be left as a feast for the creatures of the shoreline. Sea lice swarm the stalks, inexorably scouring the soft, gelatinous mass; providing, in turn, sustenance for sacred ibis that spend their days pecking endlessly at nature's generous bounty.

A moth the size of a small bird beats its wings against the ceiling, woken from its slumber by a light switched on for a night-time cup of tea and a tennis biscuit while the brain tries to switch off its endless thoughts of days gone by, the state of the world, tomorrow's dinner and all that random stuff that makes no sense and is instantly forgotten on waking.

The sea is quieter; perhaps the tide has turned. Tomorrow will tell the tale of the power of the sea. Will it have crossed the path? Dumped kelp in the street outside, as in the past? We are only a few feet above sea level. Perhaps a house on the hill would have been better? Time will tell.