Into The Sea

It’s not really a beach – more a crust at the edge of this ‘green and pleasant land’. But here I sit, on the cusp of autumn, as the gulls above me cry for the departing summer and oncoming seasons of cold and desolation.

Autumn was always my favourite time of year. Cold enough to take pleasure in warm drinks and frosty morning walks, the colours in the trees like fireworks frozen in mid-explosion. But now I realize autumn is a time of change, a time of ageing, a time of dying.

Here I sit, watching the grey sea jump and foam, encouraged by the wind that whips across it from way out there, over the expanse of ocean. Although it’s cold, I take bitter pleasure from the way it stings my face and tears up my eyes. It’s still early, the sun not yet risen though infusing the horizon with a soft glow, so I know I won’t be disturbed.

I can feel the dampness from the sand beneath me, making my trousers wet. The salty tang of the wind and spray on my lips and in my nose. These are the sensations I will maybe miss. Pure, un-doctored, nature at its most raw.

I have been sat here a while now, so I can feel the bone-deep cold within. But I can’t blame the inner chill on just my location and the conditions. I’ve been feeling cold inside for a long time now. As I’ve been sitting here, I’ve studied the sand and it’s brought to mind an image. An image of what happens to someone when one thing after another just…hurts. All the time.
Imagine your heart as a powerful glowing vessel, carrying all hope and love and goodness. With each new hurt inflicted, a piece of the vibrant heart falls away, like wet sand. Smaller hurts cause smaller disintegrations, larger ones cause damage that can be felt through the very core of yourself. Eventually, with enough hurt, enough anguish, enough pain, the very heart of you crumbles to nothing, like a coastline eroded by time and the sea. All that was warm and good and abiding is gone, leaving cold, dark, emptiness.
A striking image.
But it’s what my minds eye sees as I think of my life over the past few years. I’ve discovered that you can only carry on for so long, you can only be strong for so long, before the lack of anything good and pure and true within yourself becomes too much.

So now, I sit and wait. I’m waiting for the sun to rise above the horizon, to impart one last glimpse of the magnificence of nature to send me on my way. If I close my eyes, I can picture how it will look. The first spark of orange fire as it breaches the horizon. Firing darts of light across the churning waves, as though touching each and every one with a brush of gold. More time passes and the spark becomes a sliver, then an arch, then a rising dome of roiling fire.
And as the dome becomes a complete sphere, a ball of quickly brightening heat and light hovering just above the sea as though daring the water to try and extinguish it, that will be my cue.

There. There’s the first spark of golden fire. Perspective gives the impression it’s actually rising from the deep, as though each night is spent at the bottom of the ocean until morning calls for it to raise itself like some great leviathan from blackest reaches of the sea. Now I know it won’t be long, I actually feel very peaceful. It’s fitting that I should be here alone, with only the crying gulls and the planets giver of life for company. One of nature’s smaller miracles, a bird in flight, and it’s most awe inspiring, the rising sun.

And now, at last, there it sits, above the turbulent water. Greeting me on this last day, floating there as though I could reach out and pluck it from the firmament just to warm the skin of my hands.

But there will be no more warmth for me. Just the sea.

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11 Responses to Into The Sea

  1. Jules Lucton says:

    Beautiful, Simon!

    • Simon says:

      Thank you, it’s OK. Not sure I’m really happy with it, but when the stuff wants to come out I find it best to just publish it and ride the wave of inspiration!

  2. fibee5 says:

    It’s hard to say how that made me feel but overwhelmed comes to mind. I kept reading hoping for a happy resolution for some way for the heart to be re made. It’s a very moving poem.

  3. Simon, this is amazing writing. I feel like crying. My insides are going nineteen to the dozen. I was there.x

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