I return to the coast. Ribbons of white grace the ocean blue, dance its dance and fade. Gold laces the shoreline, full of the power of the sun, sizzling soles of feet and frolicking in the breeze.
The sun beats its own rhythm. Memories of the moon seem like mirages; matters of the night only inconvenience the midsummer.
Our laughter floats on a torrent of air. With distance it curdles - the sound disintegrates but the joy remains. It is at this point that I am ecstatically happy.
The bubbles from the Pimms and lemonade are in my brain. they burst, a neuron fizzes; another thought dashes from point to point, skipping around my head with a childlike enthusiasm. The thought is probably inane but the brain enjoys its improvisation. A thought arrives from another octave - the mind beckons it in for tea and biscuits.
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Followed for words, followed you here. I can feel the beach. For me, midsummer was Maine. The Atlantic sun, my home. Speaking of octaves, earlier I measured the size of a small room by singing an F#. What note do the waves sing, and how big is the sky?
ReplyDeleteI hope you take this as a compliment....i loved how you describe moments,scenes. it's so simple.
ReplyDeletei found it very engrossing you know like i might miss sth if i don't stay in the piece.
Thanks to you both for the beautiful comments. It means the world to me that people are reading this. x
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