And I look the other way. And I pretend not to see. Not that it is. Not that it is not. But that is what it seems to be. That is what it seems to be. So it's the time. That is what it is. That is what it seems to be.
The short daisies sitting undeneath the grass. So short. So very short. So little it is amost nothing. So little it is as much as ever was. I remember not so long ago this space was filled with other peoples pictures of iron spikes growing from the sand like mechanical Nerines. So small it is exactly as it would be thanks to a lawnmower. The drumming wind is all here that mows the coastline. So small. Open faces. Open eyes. Waiting to be trodden on. Daisies stand. Spikes stand. The drummer beats on endlessly. The sand flows quietly into shoes and socks between toes. Too hot to walk, too cold to stop. The breeze blows gently but persistently. Something here that is like a studded leather jacket, but I still don't understand what. Perhaps it is the people in the space in the people by places. Time after time it is not the same the same not the same time after time. If there is a sobbing sound heard it seems to be from here that it will come. If there is a sound form here it will be a sobbing. A long time ago I went for a weeks holiday and slept in the car on Dartmoor. The same feeling is following me again here. The feeling of there being something important that is not-here. Not that it is not here, but that it is not-here. There is a feeling that is quite inevitable. There is so much more to it all than that, but that is not about how. It is not about. It is the pace. The pattern. The speed of sand. Current flows through water and then stops. It is becoming mre and more painful daily that I have left my sleeping bag somewhere else again. It is needed now, it is needed now here. Now now. It was one of those things that had to be. One of those things that just are. Escape is not a sensible word. There s no escape. There is no way of avoiding it. It is one of those things that just is. Without need or justification. To say to escape is nothing. Of sense is nothing. It is one of those things that is so little it is not missed until suddenly it is needed. It is needed now. It is needed here. It cannot be allowed to bve anything else. A blue need of space that encloses. Encloses everything. Encloses it all. Encloses with a drawstring. Precious like enclosed diamonds. It was blue and for a long time that was quite enough. A van would be a nice thing if it needed to be somewhere to sleep in if it needed. The sea approaches roaring its intention to engulf. Rocks and rooks and spaces full of resounding expectation. Hollows in the cliffs catch older sounds and throw them back at the unwary. Empty boulders come crashing century after century to the bottom of the cliffs in pile after pile of slow erosion. Empty beaches just waiting to be filled with holiday bodies red and pink with eyes to match. Stones litter the sand below the cliffs. Litter the picture. Break the lines. Two voices sing different themes along the same song until they come together. Wind and waves join forces and part one after the other hey flow first one way and then another. Wind and waves singing themes. Themes of destruction. Of cleansing. Of removal. The quietly debris stands still to be forgotten but never will be. Dogs dig the sand to cause trouble, wet sand ripples flow out from the last remnants of the receding sea in solidified ripples. Wet sand ripples on and on until the flat lands swallow it all in shifting sand and roasting bodies to come too soon. The sun reflects from the wet sand ripples in waves of light. Seeking, probing, pushing beat by beat deep inside the head seeper still with eyes closed it beats at the shuttered face. Flying in waves through the painful squint and burns away any thought of tomorrow. It is warm. It is simple. It is warm. It is comfortable. It is the sound of the sea. Gently the sound of the sea engulfing all that there ever was. Engulfing it all remorselessly. Carelessly. Mercilessly. Without even a thought. It takes all that does not surrender completely. That is why you swallowed people years before years. People who are here are swallowed. They should be Jackdaws in the chimney now that are only Starlings instead. It is the sound of the sea. It is empty and early in the evening. The plants along the cliff top never quite relax. Never quite untense the muscles. Never quite relax. Even the bright new growth is bunched and muscular. This passive scene of tension. Place of great passion. Flooding in waves of light and sound, sand and water. Drumming sand and water. This is like the aftermath in a storm drain. Along comes the rain and washed the spider out.
The first Skylark of the year is throwing its voice against the wind. It is descriptive or it is emotional. There are no other ways at all. One or the other. Throwing its voice against the wind as it descends. Slowly note by note it descends. It descends until barely six feet above the ground and still hovering tunefully it goes into a shallow glide to a hidden place yards away. It leaves nothing but the warm brown marks of melody across the memory. Far in the distance another bird takes up the message and passes it like a flame to the next rising beacon. This is the time. This is the time. This is the time. Lock it. Lock it. Lock it away for another. lock it away for another time.
The Seagulls sing in summertime. A sound of welcome to raucous crowds. Somehow the notes have changed from the desolate cries of passing winter. These are light, holiday notes to the not for long once arrived. This is a bright white cheerful soaring sound. Seagulls and Skylarks and gorse singing in the wind. We seem to walk together. Knowing how we travel. Suddenly there is no role for a leader. No role for a follower. We all pass the warning Blackbird at once in a strung out line. Did I even mention baby Shellduck. They belong here really. I suppose this is really where they belong. It is long enough but it still doesn't reach. It is back one step. It is below a cover. Hidden by hidden. It is too careful. If an old black cow fed on this pasture for a hundred years it would be dead long before the story ended. I suppose I rather like it even though it is in many ways rather stressful. Deep inside the settee is a creaking spring.