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.