Thursday, 15 January 2015

Wanting red in January

Heading out. Hands in pockets. The last sun of the day before the dark sweeps in too soon, so warm if you hide behind a wall, shelter and turn to face far flames. You stroll a meandering route from small patch to small patch of gritty sand, right beside the lace border of surf. You're lost in the sun glare and sea sounds, and the town's grinding turn towards rush hour might never be happening. 

You notice a red crate split open, revealing tangled red threads and nets and sea bitten red foam spilling out. The smaller pieces run up the screes of stones, a new adventure just beginning. And abandoned fish heads know the red ship, loaded with red cargo crashed to shore right here, high tide this morning. 

And the tide is lurching in, wanting to wet your shoes with every wave and your heart is pounding and you have no camera and you wanted a walk in this sun right here before dark and you feel so lucky to have this the heat on your face right now, while you have the time, in this precious break without gale lash and rain sting and bleak January skies pressing down, but the best bits of flotsam are like the sides of small houses, red cabins wrecked on shore. Drowned red haired dolls peep through their shattered doorways.

You take some pieces, turn towards home, ignore the skinny dog that runs from out of nowhere wanting the wood you carry. And you hear yourself tell it that you want it more.