A midnight of islands sounds like somewhere that darkness holds fast in an realm bereft of hope. An isthmus of shadows finding footholds in crags and cliffs of stone tossed from the seabed by fury and storm? The themes of grief have been ever present, in such a way that it doesn’t seem I’ll ever be free of it. Has it always been this way and it’s only now that the covers have been pulled back to see the damp rot underneath that I am confronted by the need to acknowledge it? To find ways to turn this moldering ache into something fruitful, imbued with a spark of life?

Increments of time as a group noun to describe places where feelings intersect with the landscape feels like something worth exploring. A midnight of islands suggests there might be a noontime of meadows, or a witching hour of dark forests, a tea time of orchards, a dawn of jungles.

“And so the clock struck twelve once more, a reminder that another day had passed without any recognition of doing so beyond the sensation that I’m drifting further from that place where our lives intersected. They say no man is an island, yet here I am isolated within an entire midnight of them, as distant from the reality of you as I am from the light of day.”