Cove
by Cynan Jones
Extract
He has no measurement of time. Time seems too specific a word to him. He thinks of whiles, moments – things less measurable. And for a long while he watches the stars, the thin double halo girding the moon, rocking to and fro, building his own constellations, finding his own patterns, drawing his own imaginary lines.
How long? How long has it been? Is this my first night out? I would have been thirstier, wouldn’t I, if I’d been out longer?
... The boat shifts up and down, a lullaby hush.
One by one, the stars go out.