They say I’m not to be trusted. Maybe that’s because I’m changeable, but only on the surface. I change my dress with the seasons, with the weather, but so do you, so what’s new there? Silk for summer, so light the quietest breeze disturbs it. Shot taffeta for weekdays, crisp and such a colour and texture, much harder to the fingertips than you’d expect by the look of it. But it creases something terrible. Oil cloth for foul weather. Denim jeans are a favourite too, that indigo/white weave, bleaching in the salt and sun and wind and constant wear, the blue dye running in the wash. Always in the wash. Lace on my petticoats and cuffs. I’m a reluctant girly girl on the outside (all that blue) but it brims over sometimes, like my true nature. There is in me an innate tendency to spill out at the edges. Continue reading
– Restronguet Point (where?)
Out in the middle of the Carrick Roads Mylor Church Haven’s hidden behind the marina’s white coppice of masts. The rotating arms of the Roscrow wind turbines can be seen waving in the distance between the dip of two headlands, and the Fal really does feel like sea not river. The water is wide and the land skirts round as though the coast is folding in on itself and we’re floating in a bay that might gradually be enclosed completely by land. There’s a salt tang on the lips. A seal’s back surfaces and sinks with the roll of a submerging rubber tyre. The shorelines are beaches not river banks, lined with strands of seaweed and scattered with the pale specks of gulls. A breeze is blowing, and for the moment it’s chilly as a cloud shifts across the sun. The shade turns a patch of water deep indigo, looking like the shape and shadow of a reef beneath the surface as the sunlit section is turquoise green. Then the cloud shifts in the brisk coastal wind and so does the illusionary peril of underwater rocks.
Heraclitus said that nobody steps into the same river twice. Continue reading