Each foothold lands with guided cautions upon this broken, craggy shore. A westerly drifts with a hint of milkweed as cotton candy cloud shoulders the mountains upon a distant horizon.
Black turnstones scamper as in dance to shifting ocean’s ebb. They are cautious in avoidance of their human scrutineer. Oyster catchers pause nearby in a frenzied feed of barnacles and limpets. The sea is churning in ambiguous darkness, slapping haphazard upon rugged outcrops of volcanic basalt, a dark and dreary existence from a formation storied millions of years before.
The otherwise silence would pierce the forenoon with the aloneness and solitary confinement of dreams.
My gaze wanders with abandon as ambiguous gulf winds without purpose nor destination. The highlands rise in archaic extremity against the unemotional proclivity of mid-island skies which shift and slide in angered abeyance as in testament to a cadent deception of lies.
Gnarled arbutus lean in the sculpted elegance of intemperate gusts of coastal winds as seabird chatter breaks the quiet with the shrill of bewilderment and angered accusation. I have been presumptuous in my proceedings and they chide in recompense to my intrusion.
Still, I belong. Their disquiet leaves me unimpressed.
Layered outcrops rise above churning seas, tense yet passive to reciprocate my mood. A lone outcast driftwood lays in the silent posture as great pretenders…weathered and naked in their landlocked anchorage till the surf’s eventual rise and by their leave.
I close my eyes and smell the salt of sea and lichen awash amid the twist and turn of cast-iron shores. The accompaniment of dream’s internment solace to a burdened soul.
© Don MacIver 2012; All Rights Reserved