mango-swamps

Updated: July 18, 2026

It is a spectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dying sun. The wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly back to its abysses abandoning its plunder, scattering its piteous waifs over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among the silences of the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses and drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles.

Lafcadio Hearn - Chita: a Memory of Last Island