Images of the sea are easy up here, high, images of the sea are what I come for, what I seize upon. What I crave are the long horizons, flat and steel-grey; sometimes a line, a rigid bar, though shalt not pass: sometimes only a smudge, a blur where sky and water meet and meld with no distinction. Sailors and seagulls bear each others’ souls and nothing is fixed or certain.
Oh, he is gone my son is gone: and the tug of that is a tidal tug, it runs me in and out, and has a hidden inexorable strength, turning and returning daily.
Every day at first light, I come up to the point here carrying my basket. This is my situation, and I inhabit it: I spread my blanket, I lay out my maps and charts, I erect my telescope and I watch the sea.
Sometimes I think that the sea watches me also, but that is only fancy. I am not mad, but I could learn to be.