The sea, agitated into a westerly migration by the wind, crumples and floods out from the harbour.
A gig boat, like an oversized canoe, cuts a fluid line across sun-drenched water as its elderly crew slowly row against the wind. The shouts to keep time are muffled and distorted by the distance.
A harbour, Cornwall.
Two black and white Osytercatchers fly above the uneven water, eventually taking refuge among slippery rocks.
On the coastline, where a pebble-strewn beach is barred from the land by low, earthy cliffs, freshwater pours down slick stone and disappears under the sand.
I suppose it permeates away, to be lost in the black hole of the giant ocean.
Funny; how we have all these names to separate the seas of this world, when really there is only one, globe-spanning body of water. The streams losing themselves into the salt water are about to join this one sea, which encircles the Earth.
A stream’s last leg, facing the blinding horizon.
But, there the water is – still flowing – perpetually going about its journey, serving some small effect; a fraction of the water cycle which sustains all life.
A seemingly thankless task, being absorbed and lost forever, you’d think. Except that in reality, it is a link in a chain far more permanent, for more ‘meaningful’ (if you can call it that), than humankind can appreciate.
Older than old, the water is a storytelling grandparent; with tales that reach back through millennia – billions of years, even – to when (however it happened) water found its way to our Planet and brought together the conditions that sparked life.
I think – or at least I like to think in a romantic, over-the-top sort of way – that all of this is a part of why I like to be near water.
Yours, J. J. Lillis