Milk sop sea lathers rocks – Gilette – and the wind fights hard on page and pen. Waves cross waves in bays. Slapped on each cheek by the wind – sharp wake up, always needed. Igneous black rocks swirl like cereal in cream. Foam flies back from the palava in puffs that go on nigh on a mile.
The alleyway of rock, stage left of the cove, bursts with foamed gesticulation in time to a swinging rhythm. Flailing ghost fluff arms reach out and are submerged. Cobwebs stretch out with the waves. Lying back, reclined, on turbulence.
Sat between the rocks I watch. A crack to my left, a snail hermitage, when you poke your nose in. Land, sea, salt, earth, made this seat. Grab lungfulls of real, un-’freshened’, air. Cold and full down to my belly. Visible veils of vapour layer the landscape, radiating back from the waves. Howl Howl Howl, said the wind, first.
Can I watch this, be still, sink in? Do we always interfere when we stick our noses in? Are we here to record, as we love to do it so much. With a heavy bias towards ourselves.
If it was a plan, it wasn’t the best laid.
Gulp in the air, feast your eyes, roar in ears, drop doubt. The further we drift from the earths cycle, the sooner the tyres will run out.