Xenia Tran

What Walks with Us

We toe-test the path before stepping off the grass. Most of it feels fine, with here and there some slippery patches. Switching off my torch, my eyes adjust to the dark. There is a glow above the dunes that could be a diffusion. The marram grass, part-covered in snow, gives off a light of its own.

The sand is part-frozen and the port’s lights shimmer on the water. When we reach the softer sand where the sea retreated only minutes before, the small crest of the moon is behind us in the sky among stars and planets, glittering in amber, red, yellow and blue.

Looking up, I remember the words of my late, distant cousin.

“The strange thing was, when the bombs came raining down … all I could hear was this nightingale singing.”

A few people have set up tripods, start shooting away. Others stand in awe, watching what unfolds before us. My tripod stays under my arm, my camera in my bag. I don’t want to miss a single moment.

tingling hair—
within the icy wind
pink aurora

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About the Author

Xenia Tran is a poet, artist and photographer who lives in the Scottish Highlands with her husband and their fostered elderly whippet. Originally from The Netherlands, she writes in Dutch and English and her work regularly features in calendars, journals, and anthologies. She blogs at www.tranature.com and has published two full-length collections.