There is a cliff-edge I can remember when my breathing pulls up short. A brief spit of headland on the edge of Islay, where the land doesn’t as much meet the sea as peter out, gobbets of rock jutting out of shallow water.

There are birds there: nothing rare, only liquid blackbird song and the ‘hew-wheel’ mew of seagulls.

Sea pinks growing out of rock. Short grass and lichen in every imaginable shade of grey.

I leant my head against the rock there. Curious insects in my hair, the sound of the wind, the smell of wet soil.

That eternity feeling, that’s all.

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