something is about to change. bay clouds spot red, bulbs of peach bloom. the giddy grin of afternoon turns a nostalgic mauve, courting stoic at the slate edges of the farther shore.
a heron drums a pattern of shadows on the surface of the sea, wings tick their own quartz regularity above the pallid tidal spill. past the hushed gulls, the homeward crow.
grasses let go their green, ochre stone melts again to grey, my own skin turns a driftwood hue. I scratch at the page. snag the last few licks of colour with pen’s black tip.
when the waves come: they come now with ink on their brows, ink, the rocks they break upon, the air between the rubble of this ruined house, and ink, the undersides of gulls: flying east now, looking for the sun.