Monday, 28 December 2009

Rebel waves

Right across the beach, the waves scoop at stones, make an edge like on a linen tablecloth, napkins to match. Tiny coves, hill held, curve washed. Wave beats are sculpting a line of hollows and rises, as regular as a crochet thread loops and pulls a way through and along.

And in the beach-long lulling comes a sense of racing and suddenly, the horses have run wild and spilled out to dip and delve through a deeper valley that sends the foam flying skyward.

Right now, behind this wall, out of the ruthless wind, the sun surprises me. Look - no gloves, no shivering, no cringe, no hunch. Too good to miss, an hour writing here before the fall back to freezing.

I love the temporary lagoon out at the wave edge, shaped like kohl around an Egyptian eye. Wave throw. Sea spill. Hurl pool. The sun hits it, shows it to be precious yellow metal polished to blinding mirror edges. The water drops, falls, fades into the stones, shrinks into all the in between spaces, drains away, leaves just a wet shine.

Two kids lie down just there, arms stretched out in the brief sun bask. Voices are lost in the surf roar. They refuse to get up. Right at the lip. They lie in wait for rebel waves.