Pooled

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Some days the black tide seeps in (depression). Often for reasons I can’t tell or discover. It’s just suddenly there, black, often shiny, with no end of it, no beginning, no land to step back onto, no beach, no edge.

Only I am the edge, my feet in a water I cannot feel.

Some days I am immobilised by anxiety, this black tide, amorphous apprehension.

On other days, and sometimes even on the same day, I get myself moving, drive to the beach, walk with the dog, one step at a time, let the sound of the sea, the gulls, let the sounds in, the fresh air, the cool breeze, the shape of the rocks, height of the swell, choreography of the clouds, let them in.

Sometimes, like today, I’ll find a small pool of water left by the retreating morning tide. It’s right near Commodore Point at the end of Horseshoe Bay. The pool’s bordered by large granite slabs of rock that stretch out across the beach.

It’s the ripples that attract me, concentric rings, edgings carried by the wind and some more sea water from another, last wave. There are one or two pieces of seaweed, slippery strands that ebb ever so gently,

I tihnk: if those strands weren’t there the pool would be clearer, as if untainted. Then I realise it was the seaweed that first drew my attention, the different colours, some green, others a dull reddish, the usual browns, that faint tremor of a movement, a way of locating a moment, the ripples of a pool that wouldn’t be there in ten or so minutes.

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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