I can feel a storm rolling in. The wind is blowing the waves flat and grey, like sheet metal. It’s picking up, the wind has a real bite to it now, truly warning us of what is about to come.
I sit here on a sandy cliff overlooking the sea, knowing my homeland lies just beyond it. The colours of the sea range from the cool grey of my eyes, through a molten brown until just before the horizon sits a strip of teal; so unexpected in this seemingly barren landscape.
I move through the beach, feeling. My feet bare.
They feel the texture, the temperature, the saturation, the grain. As I walk from hard sand to soft sand my calves work hard, my feet spread as they try to find a balance, a hold.
I move and am moved by the landscape. The wind pushes me. The waves pull me. The sand persuades me. By the changing textures I prefer smoother ground. By the changing gradient I prefer flatter ground.
The wind blows the sand onto my ankles; biting, snapping. Yet it is not painful. Simply a new sensation.
The shells beneath my sensitive feet are sharp blades. Yet they are not painful. Simply a new sensation.
The water runs over my toes, under my arches, around my heel. It is cold. But it invites me to join its rhythm. After a time the fresh hits of the waves feel like home, as familiar as my own heartbeat.