Facing the Sea

Sat on the pebbles and the silent, still sea is a mystery. Boats hover in the light sea mist, white apocalypse eating up horizons. Waiting for something, a seagull shiver, watching the beach. In the distance to my right the power station chimney rises like some monarch. I think of the labyrinth there, the port-machines, displaced quarry claws, scrubby grass fenced off and desolately attractive.

The air is clammy; too hot and like a sleep that might claim you for days.