Tonight is the night of the full moon nearest the autumnal
equinox. That makes it the harvest moon, and takes my mind back to the writing
of When the
Waves Call. It was the last short story I wrote with serious intent,
and is probably my favourite.
It owes its genesis entirely to Maire Breatnach’s album Angels’ Candles, which set my mind
flying off to a traditional bar on the storm ravaged coast of Connemara
at the time of the harvest moon. I lived the music as I lived the story, and
when the last full stop was in place, the tape broke. I’ve never heard a track
from that album since. There are none on YouTube and the CD is expensive.
I don’t think I want to, either. The messenger came, delivered
the message, and then left. Why call her back to hear it again? The flow goes
on.
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