The sun went down beyond the far side of Ballycotton Harbour and everything on the pier turned to an outline. The wheelhouse windows kept some of the light, so the boat is a black shape with orange panes punched through it. You lose the paint and the rust and the name on the bow at this stage of the evening, and what is left is the ironmongery: the aerial, the radar, the railing, an anchor, perhaps.
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