The cormorant leaves no trace on the surface after he dives, becomes a black sway chasing silver. Hands are busy on a scrape of sand at the sea's edge. A sandcastle is told every story. A gull sits close by, tucked in, lost in speckles of stones.
Out on the jetty, a boy throws stones into that place before the surging, where the water gulps them down. There's a woman lying on a futon. Prepared for Brighton. Bikini and boots. Heading into the sunblast, a stickman paddles on a surfboard.
Across the horizon, all day to spend, a yacht edges so slowly away that it looks like it will never get there. A fisherman leans back into his old car seat. Toes the shallows. One long slim cloud drifts, East to West. Neat as a child's drawing.
A running dog snaps at beach wide wave crests. Turns to do it all again. And again. A grandma sifts stones in a sieve. Head bowed. Treasure hunting. Lunchtime over, a crow picks through every stone.
Just up the beach, someone on last night's tide ridge, watches all these solitudes.
25th May 2011