Not like the soft and furry night of the high islands, darkness comes to the wreath of coral land; not drugged with fragrance of jasmine or gardenia; but clean and salty with sea-wind, cool with ocean: only the light, delicate scent of @3tournefortia@1 and the tang of fires of husks ... and the darkness falls fresh as morning on the sanded street where bare feet make no sound. It is good, then, to lie on the smooth mat and hear only the trampling of the surf, the wind clashing the tall fronds of palms, and the terns talking to one another in night-language. No sleep of the high islands is like this sleep; no dawn like this awakening. |