The Island
I take the opportunity to get down to the beach on Walney Island. There is a long exposed west facing beach that is a good place to refresh. The sea always feels like an old friend, it’s the same wherever you are. It isn’t peaceful today it’s roaring. Why is it that it is so hard to walk away from the sea, it always feels difficult to leave it. So much so that sometimes I walk backwards to look at it. It’s grey and overcast, I can just make out black coombe over the estuary, the mountain close to where Anita spent most of her early life. The sky darkens and when the rain comes it seems to quieten the sea. The quiet makes me reflect that I am definately not an island.
As I walk back along the path a kestrel hovers for it’s tea. It looks so graceful when it flies but hovering in the increasing gloom it looks like a scrap of black bin bag. I stop and admire this incredible patience and determination, struggling with all it’s might. In an instant switching to the grace of flight.