29 August 2016

Beachmere Blues

There was broken, brown-bottle glass on the beach again today ; the sun showed me where my feet should not walk, but showed me also, difference, ( my favourite thing ), as the mother-of-pearl shells, their rainbow colours in their creamy bed, found their gentle way into my eyes.  And the glass-shards, some square, some pointed, all anyway sharp, listed in my hand, like miniature sails, but they sailed not away, but to me, and obscured for a moment, the rainbows and even the sun.

So I turned my head to the ocean blue, and to the brilliant, quarter-mile, light-pointed, mud-sand, hiding its soldier army beneath, and knowing that later, they would surface, and march with their clicking drum to the beat of freedom, and conquer, a blue-backed invasion-wave.  Claiming their own space.

And yet, I must wait for this, for it is yet early morning and so I turn my gaze from my expansive dream, to the fisher-bird, searching in the shallow pools. I can’t even say its name, but it fends for itself, unafraid, and after it has fed, it soars.

There is now a figure passing me.  Is she not Athena ?  Striding the ocean floor, she is not calling to me, not sirenesque, but I see her and I understand that I have more to do.  I, too, must care for those broken pieces, not shed them, but bed them down in mother-of-pearl in their common heart, and lift my own face towards a universal sun.