Two rectangles, side by side, colour-blocked in white and red, the line between them vertical. Two horizontal blocks of blue surround this central form; a lighter colour above, a deeper shade below, each flecked with greys and whites. The geometry, the symmetry, the palette of the image is alluring. Looking again, you notice the white rectangle is in fact a trapezium of sorts and the red rectangle is rounded at the top. A small black square dots the white. There is an inscription: Cemfjord. The sky is grey. The sea is rough. The prow of the ship is sinking fast.
A day with white tops on the grey waves. A day of no horizons. A woman came out of one house and disappeared into the next. In the field a horse chewed grass. Herring gulls circled. Three miles out at sea it lashed rain. The rain was to come, dragging itself behind a trawler returning to port. The trawler was just a speck, growing, until it was recognisable as a boat to the naked eye. And then, as the stoves were being lit, the trawler disappeared, taking with it five men, drowning their lives in the sludge of the past.