I collapse in a collapsible camp chair. The rods point to the sky, the left has a red light, the right a green. The tide is coming in, the grey blue waves blend with the darkening sky until sea and air become one. People become distant: their voices echo and whisper at the same time. The clouds are full of smoking menace until they blend with the sky, the sea which is as still as a mill pond, the tide coming in and lights on the end of the far peninsula that marks a romantic section of the coast. Orange lights on the promenade turn the sand a strange, alien yellow and the fish can be seen, black shapes breaking through the water where the gulls touch down. The green light moves. The pole strains as George lifts it skyward reeling for all that he’s worth. A flat diamond shape hauled through the surface of the water, a skate brown as an earthenware plate to add to the two white shapes already dead on the sand although still twitching as the nervous system ticks on. The tide keeps coming in and I can no longer tell where sand ends, sea begins or where it touches the sky. I am happy to let go and become part of it fairly certain that this must be what it is like in the end. The boom of the waves and the distant bang of thunder on the glittering peninsula.
A name of a place never visited still conjures up memories. Here is the grey church built from substantial blocks. The stonemason with his sleeves rolled up, honest work in return for an honest old age. It was his own face that he built. Friends that have long gone still insist on dropping by: it has something to do with the rain, water is a carrier for the distillations of their various souls. The rain patterns the windows in the church. The high window with diamond leading and glass that magnifies the clouds seen from the other side.