I have words wandering on the beach. A running trill across the pebbles and bubbled stream of wrecked lost sea matting. The sine curve of the bay left before and behind. Of rock and infinite stuttered cove length should you wish to measure such things. The coastline is the plane of the picture. The dimensional shift to the sea's subtle green on white plucking on the land. Of the bits of in and out, the smooth glass, soft dune sand and black fly blown corpse popping. Walking this way again after years. Unable to return before.

Resonance written down to collapse all the words into singular meanings with plural Gulls screeching. Wondering what to write now. How to tell this bit of the legend. No, I forget myself, of the fiction, just a story.

Describe this piece of coastal music, been done and better. Slice this mood of seventh wave madness, once again. Wring more wisdom from it. Counterpoint the above and below colours of the horizon becoming the same or certainly similar.  Lateral thinking provides the solution before you get to the problem. All the arts together. Plural energy combined through the art and seeing conduit.

No one but your silhouette for all the endless shore now. Not so once. The very difference between being alone and lonely. Sand relaxed but searching, not sitting soaking. Hermit crab louts wearing the drink cans and evening dresses of pink seaweed. Clockwork life chasing the tideline, over-wound beyond its limit to save lives. Birds like pebbles and kelp in forests of amphibian canopies.

There was a time when Alexion would climb across my face as if traversing this beach. Taking as much interest. The combers of her ram raid wishes taxing the evidence I had for being romantically involved. The shifting tides of her emotive pleas. Pressing down until I could not breath. You will not leave me here will you? Using will twice was significant. I am lost enough already. Lost in her own versions of history and mythical lying..

The Kings of Dalraida marched along here to place a foot in a hole as proof of their kingship. A hole in the rock of a pinnacle above a marsh. This was holy I presume. If the shoe fits. Alexion knew this before I did. Pictish Kings and cloudy Saints with Irish names in homespun and sanctified ritual stink, she told me, whilst screaming at the attacking Skua. Tonsures shaved from the front of the head up behind the ears and whitethorn crosses lashed together in caves that dripped symbolic hermit madness. Again I did not know of the Celtic Tonsure.

Alexion danced her insults to history on this beach trailing toes and mouthing nonsense to keep her inarticulate interest. On the mainland away from the mythical islands; she could not cross the water. The history of the place. She said she was here, when and there because and roundabout in her lunatic convent memories that made me mad. Because they were lies. Lies about the God I thought of then and old gods and the shelia-na-gig she made to take with us..

The Shearwater lost soul screaming knew as her old friends, even as they haunted and battered us with her name just beyond the night fire and the shushing of the waves. She was later haunting me in turn from a similar secret hole in the ground. And I of course allowed this but that was, as they say, later, much later in the roundabout story, that was and is just a fiction, you understand.