Monday, 6 April 2009


Above the place where the waves plunge into their final heave to shore, I sit on a high wall and look down. In the white noise of surround sound blast and stone chaos, I can taste the slight sweetness of spray on my lips. The sea is dark. The only crests are here right beneath me, where the light blinds with bright dazzle that surges whiter with every surging breaker. 

I love the parallels of the final rising combs as they race in above the tumbling surge, above the power of that laughing joyous lip. I love the circles and rounded squares that open up in the foam as the speed dies, right at the moment that the pull of the open sea takes hold and calls it back. It drags at the white, opens up speckled windows of greens and greys, like the catch in a stocking gives in to the stretch of a ladder. 

Before picking up my pen, I watch the lace making along the ragged hem of land as the waves cut in. Each surge sways into a tiny curved beach. Sculpting at the stones, unable to leave it alone, it knows that the morning's work is already finished.