Coastline

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Morning, not early but morning, sunlight, white hot sapphire, far away sea, always moving, quickly, quickly, this optical illusion. And then stillness, colours magnified by stillness. Ocean meets coastline, only a whisper from the East, surrealist blue. Dry brushland, sand spit island, aquamarine, river. What are they surfing? From here it is only a mirror backdrop, shadow contrast, for the green, green, grass of the hill, for a suddenly parked car.

Cloud shooting in the grey, behind the rock, in the almost dark, they are closer than you think, conformist cloud lines. Deep downward spirals and cold wave anarchy, twilight in the moment you turn to catch a ride. On the elusive rhythm between winter and night, that catches your rail, sends you shooting towards street lights and shore.

Bodies, there are too many bodies on this crescent beach, shifting beneath the palms, breathing in and out across the rocks, footprints and tourists, sunscreen and us, the Tasman Sea sardines, here for yet another take-off over shallow bank deception. Free-falling into clarity, hundreds of eager eyes, watching, as sets gather from the South, feathering at Froggies, ridden, even before they break. And here between our lives and dissipation, we are ghosts on the sand. The coastline will remember our stories, long after we have gone.

image by ezioman
courtesy of creative Commons