The sea is close tonight. It washes over the plain not with water but dreams. I'm sitting in the dark, having forgotten to go to sleep. It's too late to head on down to the shore but I wish I could, for it feels like the shore is trying to come to me.
This evening someone asked me to go back in time. For a moment I thought yes, I could do that. I know how. But then I saw what I'd been unsure of until that moment - I really don't want to go back. The river doesn't flow like that. Following the current may be frightening, but it seems even more frightening to be swimming backwards, or standing on some old bank watching everything else move on without you. It's a different proposition of course to take what the past gave you and carry it forward. Wading, floating, paddling, motor boating - however you go or how fast you go doesn't matter, so long as you are always facing towards the sea.
See this is what summer does - fills my mind with water. Come winter I'll be writing in metaphors of dirt, probably.