“Turning tides, their regularities!
What is the heart, that it ever was afraid,
Knowing as it must know spring’s release,
Shining heart, heart constant as the tide?”
– Seamus Heany
[from the dutch of J.C. Bloem (1887-1966)]
High wind cut cold North Atlantic water in tattered edged waves, curving and crashing, and then sucking smooth pebbles in foam froth.
On the abrupt coast, spruce trees leaned over cliffs in sharp edged late winter sun.
The liminal space between deep water and dark forest was protected by a coastal ridge from the wind. But the sea was tossed, turbulent, humped in white edged rollers coming in from the bay, carrying the smells of salt and sandstone.
Gulls curved along the rocky shore, passed the stacked ghosts of pebble beaches a hundred million years old, exposed by the gnawing ocean.
Walking along the water I found the sun fallen in shards and captured it to bring it here to this strange place and show it to you.