Oystercatchers are fluting a pair of calls. I am signed up to keep records of their movements but they are hooded by night’s giant shadow. Which species is not known.
I walk away from the trees to the edge, glean no-one up or down the coastline. I seem to be on the furthest part of the planet. I need this. I piss into the ocean. The breakers compress my eardrums, they can’t detect a splash. I am recycling the ocean, not replenishing. My stream is an insignificant trickle, gently lowering me into place.
Her celestial gold is being dressed today in cardinal and carmine, with a cursive script from puce to purple. Who would have thought Eos would wear such a match made in heaven?
Wet sand restores her colour at every opportunity.
A summer’s bush fly tickles my arm in a cooling wind from the north.
So much of the river is flowing out of focus, overwhelming so many possibilities.
A ribbon of stratocumulus nurtures a profile of ragged dipped vermillion. The beautiful, by definition, has to be loved. No need for explanations, simple or complex.
Helios doggedly lifts his head above the water, but cloud is overwhelming.
I turn my back and am surprised by a novel work (now a sufficient definition of art).
The beach, usually a flat canvas for the inscriptions of Silver Gulls and crabs, is sculptural.
I have never seen Cappadocia on this ground before. What took millions of years from volcanic left-overs happened here overnight, in the shadow of Old Man’s Hat.
Magic.
