The Cockle Path

I gave myself a day off from sorting (still feeling the relief now) and caught up with neighbours and inflicted marmalade on the poor souls.

Then I walked out to Scolt Head island (extra). Such stillness and silence there today...not a soul in any direction. Just a Reed bunting kept me company on the marsh path.

This is one of the current bridges along the Cockle Path. They all collapse over time and are consumed slowly by the creek mud. There must be so many down there. When I was little they were usually just scary wobbly planks that got caked with slippery mud as everyone left a bit as they walked over. It was always touch and go whether or not you’d make it unscathed. I used to fly like the wind over here, bare foot, all summer long.

I picked up some local mussels, some leeks and kale for sale from the end of someone’s garden...added white wine, garlic, black pepper and crusty bread.

Moored Man: Making the Island - Kevin Crossley-Holland

Why?
Because it welled up - a single keen wave
out of the flatcalm of his mind.

He squelched and splashed north.
He waded out
a mile and more
up to his thighs, his hips.

Why?
To see felicity.

On the hazy bar he began.
With both feet he scratched and scraped
like a wild sea-cat covering its faeces,
until his ankles were bloody and raw.

Then he kicked. He kicked.

Why?
So the Polar reach
would end in his ears.

The gravel flew and dropped,
it swarmed and swirled like chaff
in the murky water.
Longshore drift did the rest.
Pebbles and grit swam
and settled in new stations.
They rose above themselves
out of the water.

Schschschhh-huh!
Soft echoes in the cavern of his mouth.

Time and wind.

A shining cap of sand!
Sea-kale, tugging at its roots.
Sea-holly, growing beautiful
as it grows old.

Sss-sk! Sss-sk!
He strikes sounds on his sandpaper tongue.
Sss-sk! Tt! Tt!

The sun draws its blade
over his welling land.

Why?
Because it was not there.

He stares at his island
and knows he is beautiful.