Winter Beachcombing


The wind whips hair across our faces, into our eyes. Pointless moving it only for it to be blown straight back again. Sarah tucks hers into a bun. I put my hood up, glad of the cagoule shielding the wind’s worst bites from my body.

Frozen fingers can’t resist touching contents from the upturned jewel box along the sea’s edge. Poking at precious polished pieces, treasures she’s tumbled against rocks then hurriedly tried to hide under foam.

Glistening, reflecting a fading sun.

We edge hunched along the tide line, occasionally slipping a find, too irresistible to leave, into a pocket.


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