beach

I live by it. Can hear it. Globules of oil have been washed up along the shore, spillages from off shore rig. No great hoo-has considering how many wings may stick together, fins turn black. This simple image is a stretch of the planet I will look back on and my feet will remember; the white stones, bracken that hides the rabbit burrows even though the dog still sniffs them out, the primroses, daffodils then later a whole host of pinks and white and purples and yellows. Golden sand under white limpets that gives under bare feet, darken under rain or tide. There is a great and ordered breathing here, nothing small or afraid about it though my own small snatches at air yearn to be like it - and also am afraid of its greatness, its absolute truth to its own deep nature. Edge. The place between. The teetering point the writer knows and pitches her tent, saying OK teach me how to swim, how to clean, how to make waves, how to trust. walk slow