Last Night on the Seafront

Last night, walking to Em's along the seafront. Leave the house as twilight begins, and by the time I reach the seafront, twilight still hasn't begun. The light has that undeniable air of beautiful tension that accompanies the last of the light. Stone and concrete deepen, exude something, as if night is not an absence of light, but a presence of something generated by matter.
It has rained, a rain I missed because I slept fitfully through the afternoon. Seafront lights glisten and lengthen under my footsteps. The air tastes of autumn, of some tipping point, and I think of hills and lamps, and grey skies above branches and birdsong, churchyard afternoons and prayer dust.
The sea is still, a tide barely moving. People move on the pebbles. I can hear their footsteps on the stone, risk glances and am rewarded by the angular shadows of movement, jagged-elbow dance, crooked bending knees.
By the time I reach Em's, it is night and the sky is a deep undersea blue and tastes of rain.