The beach is coarse sand, almost grit. Brown duck feathers here and there. Grey pebbles, chips of worn glass. Farther on, low cliffs. Pulling down the clouds is rough work, muscles straining, skin taut. Once in the water they dissolve, a golden grey sheen where least expected. I’ve found something strange at the foot of the cliffs. Minuscule red flowers growing in the shale. They seem to be talking; it could be the wind, or your insistence on commentary as we work. We could listen awhile, take a break, let the clouds swim around, but don’t put down your blanket, the wind will pick it up, and we’ll be in England before dark. Or are we moving already, twisting the strands of light tighter and tighter, ancient sails that no one could reproduce? The water is cobalt now and furry. I think your blanket is flipping over our heads, bending down to catch our hair, our words, our frail and forgetful, as we fly off to England, watching the light intensify and our bodies spin along the rain.
Andrea Moorhead
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