On Chesil Beach

 The beach recedes five metres over a century; it's diminishing slowly, slowly under your feet.

There are people about on this summer's day, but you are all alone, sun on your back, sharp sea smell and digging your feet into the shingle: aligning your body once your feet are dug in right. You notice immediately the stiffness in the lower spine; a bit of a twist there. You must correct it -easily and satisfyingly done with the help of the smooth warm stones. This is the kind of thing you forget to do in quotidian existence.

Walking is hard-going along the beach, but it pays off with the tingle of calf muscles. Although you didn't feel much breeze, you see that you hair is all tangled as you get back to the car some time later. Salt on the lips.

There must be lots of people here on holiday but, on the routes you take, you seem to meet no-one. Climb up to the Hardy point. No one else. Much later, travelling nearer to home, not a soul is there at East Coker to follow the trail T.S Eliot left for us in 'The Four Quartets'. It seems right to visit his grave. There are some white roses laid on it. Would that there were lilac, too.

Take your time and travel slowly. You have been in knots and unravelling. This has happened before.  

Pause.

 Chesil Beach recedes five metres in a century. It is best that you move forward.


Thank you to Alexbrn and Marilyn at Flickr for the shots. x