Writing With Passion
In the quiet hours before the fruit machines begin to chirp, before the rustling of fish and chips, before pavements ring with passing feet, clouds coalesce and meander inland ahead of the sun. And the horizon fills with stories to be.
At sunrise everything spray fresh poised, about to become. While sunset is final flourish, grand gesture, a noise of colour.
Waves scythe the sands, blade across a guillotine, rushing white noise, trimming back and forth to count the centuries.
Small birds shrug shrimps in a pebble dash staccato while the harbour slow breathes the last of sleep. All too quickly eager dogs and ice-creams, for now unseen, will own the beaches.
But not now. For now only the rocks stare out to sea. And all is well.
Some people think that sunset and sunrise look the same, but we know that just isn’t so.
In the quiet hours before the fruit machines begin to chirp, before the rustling of fish and chips, before pavements ring with passing feet, clouds coalesce and meander inland ahead of the sun. And the horizon fills with stories to be.
At sunrise everything spray fresh poised, about to become. While sunset is final flourish, grand gesture, a noise of colour.
Waves scythe the sands, blade across a guillotine, rushing white noise, trimming back and forth to count the centuries.
Small birds shrug shrimps in a pebble dash staccato while the harbour slow breathes the last of sleep. All too quickly eager dogs and ice-creams, for now unseen, will own the beaches.
But not now. For now only the rocks stare out to sea. And all is well.
