Such a quiet tide.
It was as if the sea was resting, being baked into metal plates in the last heat of September. Two finishes ran across the quiet slick. One reflecting the white walls of towering cliffs, clean as new paint. The other dulled to a pale blue matt. Too bright to gaze at for long, I leaned back and watched the cliffs upside down, waiting for the tumbling fall of rooks, who never cackled over the edge.
Little boats fished out in the sky, out near where the horizon would have been. Suspended in the rising haze, they were mascara lines. Wakes raked up the surface, doodled musical scores with a carefree pen.
One boat chugged like it needed to cough, raised nets up high on supports and sailed across the horizon like a falling W, oddly unbalanced. The nib caught in the tooth of the paper, dragged an ink splatter of seagulls behind it.