In December 2009, I just sat down to write, and this flowed. I’m a little surprised.
The sea has a special way of talking to me although not an utterance occurs from either of us. I stare out, tears streaming down my face, and the waves crash on the serrated rocks in a sweep of solidarity. I wonder how many others had stood before it and cried, their salty tears adding to its vastness. Perhaps the sea is a collection of the world’s tears – our days of sorrow gathering to harbour the land. And as the winds swipe the salty residues across my high cheekbones, there is no need to wipe them away. ‘They’ll dry,’ I whisper. Just like those before it.© The Londoner, December 2009.