The sea is practising its old language,
white syllables breaking at our ankles.
A rock kneels in the shallows,
scarred, patient, older than the word before.
Three figures argue with the tide
one runs, one braces, one watches
their shadows briefly stitched to wet sand
before the water edits them away.
Behind us, the cliffs hold their breath.
Ahead, a lone stack stands offshore,
a sentence left unfinished
after centuries of erosion.
The wind smells of salt and endings.
Laughter is flung like a stone,
skips once, twice,
then disappears into foam.
Here, time is not counted in hours
but in waves touching skin, retreating,
touching again
as if the ocean is reminding us
we are temporary,
and that is the point.
Sony A7RV
FE 14mm f1.8 GM
Check out Candid 1100
