Wye River, amber across sand, empties
near bible-times rock platforms. By accident or design, everywhere rock pools
drain and fill, sucking conduits or sustaining thunderstorms of surf. Crusts of
limpets define former waterlines. Dark crimson, pulsating and rippling,
anemones survive in clear saltwater. Their rich blood flowers haunt and
inspire, even in bright sunlight. German campervans and Chinese busloads hop
from platform to gouged platform, handy with cameras and pamphlets. By nightfall
it won’t matter if the month is April or which book we’re reading, the anemones
will stick to terrestrial walls, shapely in being, quiet under fabulous
inestimable foam.
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