The tide appears drawn to the horizon, waves rolling in and out, its rhythm as steady as my own. Perhaps that's why I feel so soothed here, my heartbeat finding synchrony with those sea-foam arches.
A while ago the posts of the old pier were as stepping stones beneath the waves. Ivor sat upon barnacled rocks, imagining dancing from one to the other, appearing to leap from the briny waves. With the retreat of the tide they bathed in the sun, those deep brown supports of old. Their weathered cracks made them a bounty of subtle hues. In an hour more they would stand proud, clear of the salty waves, decorating the shore with orderly stripes of shade.
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