Tuesday, 9 June 2009


In the dull pink of midday, I watch a storm that will not come to shore. 

The calmest sea. It gasps and sways like a restless open-mouthed stranger sleeping opposite you on a train. In this unsettling light, this high tide seems half hearted. It slinks. Tries to be quiet. No stone shifting today. 

Hypnotic to watch the endless patterns that form on the end of an old wooden groyne, the rise and fall of the not quite circles, the not quite squares seem to flood over themselves, like small seas with tides of their own. 

I skim a smooth stone. I like the longs and shorts of it's six note tune and the final distant gulp. And as the slow circles of those skips span out, mackerel spear into the air like blue black knives heading for the slate horizon.