Beach Mist

Mussel shells have always had a special magic for me.  I think it’s their soft colour and the subtle sheen inside, and whenever I go to the beach I just have to collect at least one.  And their shape – an animal lived in there once but now the emptiness of the shell is full of some sort of wonder like hope, like love.  The basket in the porch where I keep them will never be too full.


shell magic

voices from within

pull out the echoes


The misty morning sound of the sea over the stones on the small beach near my house curves over me as I make my way down. It is too damp to sit on the stones right now as the tide has only just begun to turn.  The seaweed is bunched in lines of green and brown, squelches underfoot.


a scrape

with each roll of foam

glistening mussels


I’ll stay for a while and feel the cold mist on my skin.


I find three perfect blue shells for my hand.  They smell of the sea and of mystery.





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