The shore at dusk is sea-land-skying. The air is wind-tint-dropletting. My skin, my eyes, my ears feel the rush.
To see the place through time is to be blind to the never before moment of the collapse of that chocolate brown surfing into the shingle sloping. The sea knows nothing of a million years as it rises up and casts itself, somehow gently, but with weight ,on the shore.
Nothing has ever been the same as that moment of falling before, and nothing every will be again.
Never before has there been that rush as the sea slips back down into itself, rolling pebbles over pebbles as it goes.
