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.