Happy in the unremarkable of this monochrome, I sit down below the steepest banks of cliff carve, not quite warm enough, but not quite cold, count only three silhouette stick people and the scribble of a small running dog on the whole beach. A woman in a red jacket stands out by the waves alone, the only vertical. The red is a shot to the eye against the horizontals of wave white, the pale sand, the dark mottled carpet of stones, the blank canvas of mist matt.
Happy to hear the waves without the roar and hum of city racing towards the weekend, the mist is making this part of town serene between the breaths of the breakers that rise sudden and pause transparent, before their falling. That glassy jewel light in the final arching curve of surrender cuts into the crisp sound of collapse, like neat words that never finish in the letter s.