one-off at the wrist

Advent IX

Behind window 9: Surf Sound.

Perhaps being born and raised on a small island, but the sound of breaking waves on a deserted beach [crisp Winter day is good, Sunrise or Sunset is better still] with maybe just a few seabird cries, on a lonely stretch of coast unspoilt by any obvious signs of human activity, always fills me to the depths of my being. Something primordial? The continual white noise of cresting, falling, dissipating gentle waves is one feeling. The heavy ‘foom’ of waves breaking on an inclined shoal bank, followed by the sparkling tinkle of pebbles rubbing themselves to perfect roundness is another. Knowing the motion is unceasing. Feeling the sleeping power. On a windy day feeling the Earth breathe as its watery heart begins to swell.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Sonnet 60, William Shakespeare, c. 1595


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