skirl of bagpipes.



O

n the Scottish coast the sunset prowled the lowtide combers, roll­ing cloud into cloud, wave into wave. The clouds absorbed orange with yellow and the yellow took on red, the red brooming low, sweeping shoreward, reaching the sand at our feet.

Is it true that we saw the sunset together, her arms around me, the rocks be­yond us red, the sunset extending for miles? The moon rose out of a rust-colored sky?

Stratford-on-Avon

June 11, 1615

“Darling, ours is a supreme happiness and we must cherish it,” she wrote me long ago.