The Last Harbour
Light from hulking harbour-boats lit the dark waters as they rumbled past on their night journeys, oblivious to our faces in the choppy sea waves. Wind whipped at the water surface, playing mosaics, as if there was a moment to spare at playing.
The salt-water didn’t trouble Triton like it did me, salt stinging my senses: the sea was his home. He rolled his golden shoulders, eyes fixed on the walkways round Stockholm harbour, littered with people blind to us, our plight, blind to all of our ruin. This was the last harbour.
Triton set his jaw and raised his father’s Trident, pointing it towards the harbour and the city hidden in its light, and the blindfolds of modernity.
“Not yet, another moment,” I pleaded, resting a hand on his.
