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Went to the coast today.
I love the sea.
And I love old, slightly shabby seaside resorts, especially out of season.
The beautiful curves and lines of 30’s buildings looking hunched and downtrodden in their grubby cream or white paint, and they now house caff’s run by worn-faced women who look out blankly at you over their domain of formica-topped tables and lonely slot machines, and who serve you your tea in thick brown glass mugs.
- Summer Holiday seen through a glass darkly.
I like beachcombing. Picking the best pebbles, the perfect tiny shells – though I prefer the broken ones; spirals of sacred geometry interrupted, pearlised pastel stripes torn through.
The ruin of it suits the surroundings, like the rotting seaweed, the half-decayed seagull above the tide-line.
Nothing should strive for perfection next to the totality of the sea. The competition is too unfair.
I love the sea.
And I love old, slightly shabby seaside resorts, especially out of season.
The beautiful curves and lines of 30’s buildings looking hunched and downtrodden in their grubby cream or white paint, and they now house caff’s run by worn-faced women who look out blankly at you over their domain of formica-topped tables and lonely slot machines, and who serve you your tea in thick brown glass mugs.
- Summer Holiday seen through a glass darkly.
I like beachcombing. Picking the best pebbles, the perfect tiny shells – though I prefer the broken ones; spirals of sacred geometry interrupted, pearlised pastel stripes torn through.
The ruin of it suits the surroundings, like the rotting seaweed, the half-decayed seagull above the tide-line.
Nothing should strive for perfection next to the totality of the sea. The competition is too unfair.
