lambent evening light… seaford head, the distant cliff, but a lazy peach smudge, daub thumbed across the horizon
the sea, a softness, ease in and out of being
through the stillness, from the dizzy far below, sound rises like wood smoke
trudge crunch as a man makes his way home across the pebble shingle
splatter scamper of the mackerel, tails fork tongue flicker across the water…. these sea speakings
Blackberries and Hawthorn Hips, knotted Red and Black… fluffed, the firework fiesta of Old Mans beard
hollow sonorous knell of a wood pigeon
look! my head! lumpen huge as some easter island moai
Hoa Hakananai’a… stolen away to languish, across the sea, snug smuggled within the British Museum
home now… lacking much (anything!) to say… greatly liking words, enjoying the fruitful unimportance of it all…i consult the motto on my Rose Geranium Yogi tea bag:
‘let us be kind and compassionate to remove the sadness of the world’

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