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Song to the Sea


High hopes up and beyond: purple skies and warm sunsets dappling bleached leaves. To stride out; we all go. Stepping out onto wet cobbles and paving stone slabs, deep-rooted strength underfoot. Rising out across windswept, rocky scree; shorelines stretched gaping wide to yawn and sigh with little moon man. Looking down to see us all. Here amongst the rush and bustle, the dash, slip-slide jostle, homes made new with no fuss joyful beginnings; pictures and curtains, even the small jug she said would come in handy, atop a shelf just for show. Little lives, lives to share and be shared. We must go. To the sea, lighting bonfires and singing. Fresh or not so fresh on those particular afterwards, asleep till noon sessions, curtains keeping light at bay for peaceful hours longer. Fondness such a good word, wrapping hands round mugs of whistling tea to keep good warmth close by. If only to keep out the brittle soreness, dulled by brief affection, that creeps through floorboards and lies stagnant on forgotten windowsill, bookshelf left behind. Words flung by, ears rough to the touch at stinging; no not quite awake, but still here. Ready to be heard with all. Just there, where light breeze of catching yellow, the swallow you saw at that river the other day. Heart out of breath, feet off-time. Next tomorrows will be fine. And down to the sea, if only for some time. To catch the glimpse of far off, painted gold toes pressed into sand. She can hold me there, all to listen and sing, down by the sea. To find a solid, gentle soil-shifting piece of land to step atop. Kindled anew with bright and strange beginnings.

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