The hills behind the sea hold a monochrome of housing. This landscape measures itself by the worst of the year when nothing holds back the cold.
A fading moon marks doubly and faintly the surface of a sea that only whispers of that violence. Small waves turn at summer’s low. Crowding gulls investigate and dismiss the waxy brown shoes that weight the clothes left above the tide line. There are no tourists or dog walkers, no runners or beachcombers to disturb them as they group and fly. The shoulders of the concrete boned hotel, long surrendered to corrosion, mark the place where they will fish.
Repeating the action between high and low, the ribbon edge of water lives. There is faith in each return. The first yellow signal of sun turns the sky-sea shell to blue and dims the final star.
Each year that he walks from the sea on this day he finds it curious that he too is not coloured blue by the water. But today his hands and feet are white, near blue, gifted by exertion to a heart foolish enough to mark its first breath in such a way.