To shore

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Sky, sea, shore and the lines between them. At Dunbar we walked along the sea wall watching white waves crash and spout over the concrete, slapping weeds at each pitchover. But the divisions are not erased, though the mirror of light might in this picture let us believe so. Everything remains and everything moves. In another part of the coast, a pebble beach was clawed by waves so much that the stones rolled down the beach, making a sound like hands clapping, a distant audience giving applause.

 

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The pebble beach could be applauding itself, the beauty and measure (and constant remeasure) of the shoreline. When we come to the sea, we come in part to witness reordering, constant motion elegantly played out.The tall tipped lighthouse staring out to see on a bright blowing day, under the hieing clouds. The cormorants flying over the shallows with their heads characteristically low on long necks, looking like bottles of black red wine.

 

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Oystercatchers in a peeweeping flock over sandstone paving. What is still, and has been for thousands of years, and what is moving from the land to the depths. The red-tinged waves, full of Dunbar sandstone worn to silt.

 

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The sea changes and we watch the sea, the changes in our life paling in comparison to this rhythm. It’s a good place to come and breathe. Salt and rotting seaweed, spray, grass from the links course (typical of the East coast, golf and seaside, a central sport sprawling on marginal land). We came to mark a date, D and I, without marking it. To see its constancy and change. That’s one theory. The other is just that we wanted to hear the sea and again and watch it glittering, as we had four years before when we got married, as we had nearly ten years before in the coastal town where we first met.

 

To shore. To draw in. To wait. To count irregular waves and irregular flock and bird cries. To love the sea and our lives beside it, for a short time. The span of what we get of the earth’s composition, together.

 

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