Kell Tibenham

On The Shore

On The Shore A boy dressed in blue combed the beach for valuable debris. His limbs were just long enough now to carry him with some speed and surety, though green enough to take the batterings and bruises that the rugged coastline greeted him with. He was of that age where the mind has not yet caught up with its gangly vessel, the pilot still used to shorter instruments, and so he was always slipping and bumping into things. His family were away from the scene, back at the white house where they were staying, or visiting the village. He was alone on the shore, and beside the sea was where he wanted to be. The sea was always what he wished for her to be, and he accepted all her changing moods without question. She was one voice, clear when she spoke, perfectly stark against the clatter of everyday conversation, and she always listened. The boy and her understood each other, he thought, much better than his human relations. Her coolness was serious when he needed seriousness, and he understood her temperaments and respected them. When she was tempestuous, he did not enter, and when she was calm, she invited him. On those days he would lie skyward afloat on the spray, glossing over glassy waves.