Tuesday, 12 August 2014

Sea Salt And Socks



Water rises, slowly, in the balanced dish, in the thin china flaked with corn that went unrinsed after last night's supper, the tap squeaks. Other dishes too are stacked, the edges ripple overflow: water pours, with intermittent squeak, stirs up the stagnant strip of flat in the washing up bowl; tiny reflections tremble. Grey light sighs over crumbed worktops. A towel on the floor in front of the washing machine, striped in shadow, dotted in sand. Where are the wetsuits? Unrinsed, one suspects; smiles, raises up the window blinds to bulked cloud; thinks of yesterday. How warm it was: how we sat with the sun-bloom on our faces, on the way to work, straight from Perranporth beach, in the car drinking cold coffee and how the rain came down! The air chilled. It even had that smell, that faint spice of autumn. At work we were pale with sea salt and dusty sand. At home, warm socks waiting.







4 comments:

  1. Madam, you say incomparable things incomparably well.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Lovely. Your writing is so lyrical, and creates such vivid images, it comes across as poetry masquerading as prose. That's quite a talent.

    ReplyDelete

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here: