MAGICAL ISLAND SONG
The islands sleep, dark and quiet, pretending they have nothing of substance to offer in return for the abeyanced clanking, growling, seething urbanity from which the strangers have escaped. But the islands do sing in their sleep, in an orchestrated, layered series of atonal sweeps which mean something to someone hereabouts, but nothing to the strange children of Mammon who have crept to this jealously-guarded yet much-vaunted secret refuge. They have crept here from their lives of frantic fiduciary activity so that they can liberate a corner of time for reflecting on how damn good their lives are.
These friendly islands appear to live solely for elastic sun-ridden days and the stretched orange-purpled evenings - but in their unlikely reality they only in truth blossom to fullness when the lights go out and the darkness descends. Then the archipelagic equivalent of aurora borealis explodes across the sky, and the influences which are beyond the moneyed classes exert themselves. But these, let's call them south-western lights, aren't the firework type. Let us warn you before we go any further, this idyll can damage your wellbeing. It will if you don't change yourself.
to be continued
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