The Bangor Line

A beautiful summer evening after the sun has set leaves behind a bright blue sky at almost ten at night.

The blue is banded down to white, then pink and finally a dusky grey and casts no shadows, no reflections of this twilight.

I snake along the winding railway line from Bangor skirting Belfast Lough — its rippling silver glint the only hint beneath the sky that light is present.

The trees that line the tracks cast perfect silhouettes against this painter’s backdrop, decorated only by the moon — a waning crescent.

“The next stop is… Seahill” the train announces - the pregnant pause before the destination seems like seconds in my mind.

Though I know every single stop here, somehow I’ve tuned out all but fascination for this wondrous sky the day had left behind.

Even the din of giddy passengers, aglow with warmth and glee absorbed from a day beneath the rarest rays has faded.

And somehow lost in simple wonder for the world, my muse returns and I extract this moment to study again when I feel jaded.