Hurled high on the beach, seaweed lies twisted like poetic lines hurled from the churning chaos of the night before. I walk their meander. Their wayward threads remind me of a half heard song I once tried to capture in hands too swift to ever harbour it.
I want to soar above the beach, trace this pathway mile by mile, follow the phrases east to west, copy their shapes down onto a pristine page, like they might have secrets to tell if they could be pieced together. (Sorry - can't make the photos clickable today.)