Caught in a Fata Morgana
The islands flickered and flexed in front of my eyes, a shimmer above the Atlantic swell. Even the virescent hues of the surrounding waves creased and folded in some unknown luminal lurch.
Seen from the shore of Treagh na Cille’s darkly silvered beach Dutchman’s Cap breathed in the warmth. Each inhale and exhale inspiring a new vista on the far distant horizon.
Known in old Gaelic as Bac Mhor, the islet was caught in a Fata Morgana (a complex superior mirage) and shape-shifted swiftly in the heat of an August high noon.
I aimed the length of my longest lens at the transfiguring scene as a sailing yacht drifted by. Waves of ululating light claimed the vessel and dressed it as a Moorish vision drifting through time from some old Mediterranean myth.
