Monday, January 17, 2011



Seagulls crowd together at the end of the beach, near the cliff. The breeze that lifts their feathers is cold. The sun is pale and does not yet warm the breeze but we know the day will be hot.


The bay is crowded. Boats glide across the smooth water, lifting and falling across the wakes of other boats. People on the sand cross and cross again the tracks of others. There are things to find on beaches and today there are enough children to search out each and every treasure.

We climb on the sea wall and walk over rocks and pretend we are far out at sea. Caves tempt us with their secrets. We hide in their dark shadows and then reappear into the sunshine, suddenly, as if by magic. A man stoops to draw long lines in the wet sands with his bare hands, mystical signs. A small girl follows the lines like a pathway.

Late afternoon

We follow the tracks of a seabird and the sea sighs and sniffs at our heels. The disappearing sun shines the sea-washed pebbles into bright buttons to fasten long fingers of shadow onto brushed velvet sand. Wet dogs spar with rock pool demons.


From the top of the cliff you see a path of light that leads to the moon. If you try to walk the path it fades before your feet and leads only from the dark sand into the cold sea.

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