I will begin from the beginning, where the wash of the waves rhythmically and quietly, in offshore wind, calmly, with a soft sizzle and a white fillet of foam, taps on the sand, the spit and the fine pebbles, and runs playfully to shore, flattening almost imperceptibly, like the tail of the lion in the afternoon sun, breathing in the shadow of the Acacia tree, fearlessly closing his eyes and dozing off.
I will begin from the sea one dawn, when the gentle swells catch the sun in glimpses, stars, mirrors of tiny suns, and the great swing of the clouds swings lightly in the morning breeze, like your mind swings lightly, swings away from stars and planets and infinities. It is not a time for musing and pondering, it is a time for wonder, at how pure the sand is, and how carefully the umbrella sways, and how warmly the shoulders heave over round breasts and sun-kissed blankets.
Ribs and skin under the cover of the sand dunes, where the wind runs in the lyme grass and your limbs are warm, your hands find someone else’s warm skin, soft curves, and you meet in hard kisses flashing like granite or sun glare on waves. Out there is the rythm of the wash, the clear, swelling, heavy wave breaking white for land. In here on the beach, the grains of dried-up summers.