99er Days
Today’s a 99er day, a day for beachcombing and ice cream; rock pools trap water, sunlight, and salty rainbows, and tame wild foaming white horses; it’s a kite day – the wind whips hair into eyes and sandblasts cheeks – and begs for a kite to tug up into the wide open sky, pulling up into the doughy clouds and away.
Little ripples groove the plain of sand like a dog’s mouth (I took that description from a book, but it is the best analogy) and our footprints mess the perfect pattern, but I’m distracted by the sea; rushing and swirling up unseen channels to lick round your feet and cut you off from the land, it is green like a sea dragon’s mouth.
The strawberry syrup slows my tongue, provides some drag; chocolate flakes are not what they used to be, tasting as woody as the twigs they resemble now, that has changed; I debate whether an oyster ice would have been better, but the wafer looked stale; no chance of errant dribbles, the base is licked clean and smooth.
The bunker sinks into the dune where it once stood proud, scanning the horizons for ships and planes; black and grey damp walls coldly frame a beautiful picture postcard oblong of sea, sky and sand. Did they see the beauty of the view? Or just the promise of invading hordes? Did the birds still trip along the beach, perching on mine prongs?
