océanne

oceanic


They call you wild sand. Something told me too many footprints come and gone, erased by tides, so many rounds of lunar lightyears... 

I made a promise to my heart. Too long I waited to be re-united with your magic. So I walked through your marram grass and found sleeping dragon right at the edge. The light was delicious at lunchtime. I began to listen to you. I love your rocks and boulders clad with seaweed and limpets. There is something about you that reverberates on wet sand. I remember you clad in ice last winter. Now we're back in November I feel summer. No skelping wind against my face, warmth by your side. Indian summer pushed to the edge.

The edge. That very line drawn by your surf, the earthly seam of a curtain we dare not cross for fear to drown in the unknown. Not long ago, men feared to reach edge of the world - the uncharted,  twisting, white-out, reckless void... Too many boats never returned inside their minds. To stand by the edge is to defy our very fears in the face of the horizon. 

Change of Light

As I wander towards the  centre of the sand-bridge, low clouds change everything. 

Our bountiful November sun begins to play that very game of hide-and-seek. Silhouettes, rounded in gold background, seem to shiver a little more. I will not turn, so determined to feel at one with Arcania. Breakers sound so earthly metronome. Every pebble turns an island, every limpet shell, a mountain. 

I can feel angels around you.

Closer to the shore,

I see you.

As I walk back towards the mainland,  I feel the claws of the darklands.  Low clouds engulf your every hill, like a hungry gigantic mouth. My world darkens further as I drive north.  Too soon we shall revert to dusk and today's sunset's deleted...

I still hear you inside my heart. 

Each wave, each return of the tide...

yesterday I whistled to two selkies south of your bridge, today I walked along your edge, double bladed, synchronised song. Mist may swallow the last hours of my Sunday, my prints will remain on your sand.