Notes from the Strand


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Thistles, bereft of their forgiving buds salute with biting fingertips.    The scattered bones of a vessel's  rib-cage stand like parted lovers between stained waters.    Seaweed clings to rock, scrabbling for escape from the onslaught of salivating waves. Retching and spewing; grease like sweat on their watery tongues.  Wind abrades my swollen lips and tugs and my numb limbs.    And yet, puddles speared by rocks and tainted by mud, it's reflection septic and obscured, dapples delicate shades of light onto its surface. Glowing heat caresses my earlobes and shoulder as the sun in the East beckons me, calls me with its touch.    Thick strands of unhappy weeds brown themselves to flax and I feel as if I cannot move. As if I can do nothing but allow it to capture me.    Tides chase me with wet, sorry arms and a begging good-bye.    I feel colder.    Sodden pebbles scratching and clattering against each other in an attempt to be first to reach the shore.   The smell of mud. Salty, gluttonous mud.    I feel a peculiar silence. A numbing calmness, paralysing my impeding thoughts. A Quiet's shallow barricade to all doors of intrusive doubt.    The wind muffles me, the sun roots me and I find, despite the tide staring greedily at my dangling feet that moving is not an option. I'm compelled to stay.    Godforsaken solace. Sickening heaven and ragged utopia.  Waving, drowning seaweed.    I feel silence.  I feel neither soul nor body.    My body is a vessel for the wind, for the grace and leaves and mud, for the chill and for the beckoning waves.    I feel silence. 
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