On the beach today:
The fragile bones of broken sea birds.
The texture of stippled sand where rain had fallen, smoothed by the incoming tide.
The bones of a great tree washed up by the power of the sea, stranded on stones, smoothed by waves.
And plastic, always plastic; small beads, pots, gloves, splinters and brittle shards in unnatural colours, ropes and crates, pieces of buckets, lighters, lids, balls, all manner of discard.
Back home, there are cats and angels in my window.
