Coils of worm casts emerging. Pristine spirals, dark on the sand.
Standing in the empty dance hall of the beached pier. A tango on my iPod.
Ropes on the wreckage. Hauled in with an orange pennant.
Out of the shallows, he emerges with fishing spear in hand. His dragged yellow net holds the silver writhing of bream and mullet. As he tips his catch onto the sand for me to see, scales fly onto my black shirt. They glint blue and gold as I move. With a handful of sea lettuce and a brown speckled lobster, it looks like a beautiful still life on the mirror sand.