Beach musings

For some of you, my readers, it is the middle of beach weather (if you are fortunate enough to be near a beach). For us in the Southern Hemisphere, alas, it is winter and a bit nippy for seashore ramblings—not that that stops people, but it does stop me.

To recollect some of that warm, salt-laden pleasure, here are a few small snippets that I’ve written that were inspired by the sea. My beach writing tends towards prose poetry, with the occasional verse; the ocean certainly likes to bring out my poetic side.

Let us now think breezy, refreshing thoughts, and if you like them consider signing up for future, less breezy thoughts.

It’s one of those glorious summer days. The ones where the hills—spun with gold—sit starkly against the vivid blue sky like magazine cutouts.

The sun is hot, but the sea is cold.

There are some clouds lightly feathering the hills, but none over the sea; nothing lowers on the horizon except for cargo ships, lurking uncannily large and uncannily close.

It is relaxing out there in the surf, with waves crashing around my shoulders and splashing about my hips.

There is peace in the distant tidal roar, in the indecisive push towards the shoreline and pull towards the depths.

There is no time out there: no was, no later, only the eternity of seafoam.

Dark clouds, and distant
Contrasted with brightest white
Sunlight on the waves

The comforting roar;
A subtle scent of brine;
There is a chill breeze
Blown in on the waves.

The warm sun;
A trail along the sand;
There are gulls standing guard
Against the tide sweeping under them.

The beach outstretched;
A line of white-caps—endless;
There is tranquility
In the everlasting rhythms.

The tide is in retreat; the waves trip over themelves in their hurry to leave.

The green-turned-white-turned-brown of the water rushing in, then out, unending, is pulled from the sands toward the phthalo depths upon which hover great ships, pointed at a sharp, flat horizon.

There are no clouds to break the blocks of colour, as two-dimensional as a magazine cutout—there are only the faded, jagged shadows of distant hills.