Night song on a damp air night

Tonight we walk in the darkest of nights where not a star shines down. No moon. Only the steady sweep of lighthouse warning of treacherous rocks, smurred and smudged by the dark, moist night.
And the night smells of earth, raw earth, and yellow gorse, pale scented, not rich like the thick, golden scent of gorse in sunshine. The white blackthorn leaves a faint star-shine of scent hanging in the still night air.
We walk the village bounds and hear the cries of night birds, the alarm of geese disturbed from sleep, the distant dog bark from the farm across fields, and behind it all the ever constant song of the sea.