When the sun has gone down and the sky has gone grey, and the boats have come in at the end of the day, there’s a whale in the deep where the water is still, and he hums to himself, like the wind on a hill.

It’s a hum that is low, it’s a hum that is slow, and it rolls through the dark like a wave, to and fro, and wherever it goes there’s a closing of eyes, and a hush in the water from seabed to skies.

First the herring go quiet, a thousand or more, and they hang in the water like coats by a door. Then the crabs in the weed tuck their claws in and rest, and the limpets hold tight to the rocks they like best.

And the eel in his hole gives a yawn and a sigh, and he settles right down where he happens to lie. And the octopus folds up her arms, one by one, till she’s eight of them folded, and then she is done.

And the jellyfish drift with their lanterns unlit, and the starfish lie still on the sand, and that’s it. And the flatfish, who’s flat, and who’s always in bed, stays exactly like that, with the sand on his head.

And the seals on the rocks by the mouth of the bay hear the hum through the stone, and they blink, and they stay. And the cod and the haddock, the plaice and the bream all go slow, and go slower, and drift into dream.

And the shrimp in the shallows, as small as a pin, gives a stretch, and a wriggle, and settles his chin. And the snail on the rock pulls his horns in his shell, and he’s closed, like a shop with a sign and a bell.

And it rises, the hum, through the waves to the air, and the gulls that are floating about on it there tuck their heads in their wings, and they rock, and they rock, like the slow tick and tock of a grandfather clock.

Now the sea is asleep, from the top to the floor, from the rocks at the edge to the deep off the shore, and the only thing moving, the only thing heard, is the hum of the whale, and it hasn’t a word.

And the whale hums it lower, and lower, and slow, for it’s reached him as well, and he’s starting to go. And his eye, which is small for a creature so wide, is the last thing to close, like a door, from inside.

And the hum goes on humming, though no one can say if it’s him, or the sea, or the end of the day. And the water is dark, and the water is deep, and the whale is asleep, and the sea is asleep.