Monday, 23 May 2011
Landscapes in Seafoam
The house is shuddering and shaking. The slates of the roof are pulling themselves free and dashing themselves to the ground. Somewhere the wind catches on a corner and whistles shrilly as it passes.
The green leaves are being torn from their branches and the gulls are shrinking, hiding in corners with their feathers pressed in close.
And so, I suppose, am I.
On this evening of roaring and rushing, I thought of the calm place between the sea and the land, of the patterns on the rocks and the weeds that stand sometimes on the ocean floor, and sometimes at the end of the earth.
We walked out across an eternity of volcanic rock to the place where the rocks grow too slippery to walk on. We tread onward, good sense be drowned. Creeping and slipping, drinking the salt spray air, we tottered to the edges of tide pools, and very nearly into them.
My husband brought back a handful of patterned photos. I grew algae and sea mud up one of my legs and brought that back, to churn around in the desperate storms of the kitchen washing machine. It seemed nicer somehow to share the photos.