Darkest before dawn

It is darkest before the dawn. At 5.45 the sky was draped with a funerary cloth; the gauzy moon no longer hung above the mountain top, all the twinkles had been snuffed out. There was a deathly silence, not even the owl called his mournful song. I returned to bed.

When I awoke for the day, Mother Nature had daubed white splodges on the cornflower blue sky. The yellow backs of bee-eaters flashed across the sky catching the early insects, larks sang from the telephone wires and the sparrows sat on the decorative bars outside my window, heads cocked . The air clung to my skin, its sticky fingers leaving me tacky.

As I descended, the air cooled slightly. The sea mist curled around the masts and lighthouse, hiding the horizon  beneath its mantle. Window down, music on, the air whipped my hair.