Monday, May 6, 2013


It has been many years since I stayed in a house next to the sea. A house with no key, a house with an outhouse. Where, if you need water, you take a bucket to the well.
A house with no plug points, no electrical hum.

When last did you walk on a beach for a day, without seeing another soul?
We walked the marshes and he found this clue:

Around the bend, there they were, those flamingos.
By the end of the day I had handfuls of feathers.

There is samphire, I think. And the husks of hundreds of small, bone-coloured crabs.
A house settles gently into decay. The cement contains not just sand, but shells and pieces of purple coral.

In the mornings, you open the kitchen door, and they are there, waiting for breakfast.

A place that can wipe away fear.
The city has made me so cautious.

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