Shards of sail staple sky to sea as fingernail-thin boats lean in to the horizon.
The surge of surf converses constantly with the silent shore, urging its message upon the oblivious beach.
My children scramble on the man-made groyne, a facsimile of wild rock, in which they find caves 'with a proper rock on top' (Bea) and 'a hundred miles deep' (Willem).
We are here on bikes, salt wind in our hair, and my *** slowly absorbing moisture from the almost-dry sand as they unburden their youth upon the rocky playground.
And then come the treasures.
A flat shell the size of my palm and worn pearlescent smooth.
A fossil pebble of concentric ingrained ripples.
'Something amazing Mummy,' comes the cry. 'You have to see this stone; the colour of Coca Cola,' shouts my boy.
More treasures emerge and are grafted on to the sandy pile.
Quartz-like lumps and a mussel entangled with tiny seaweed strands and miniature white shells, like micro leaves and hints of feta in a fancy restaurant.
The boy wears welly boots, no socks, and a plastic medal around his neck. 'Batman, Batman, Batman,' comes the cry, while Bea determinedly scans heaven and Earth for jewels to stud her imagination.

The haggard lawn is tired of the long hot summer now September has arrived.
Its seedy moustache is no longer luxuriant, but wiry;
A snake-like thing that has ambitiously unfurled without the full quotient of chlorophyll.

It is time to offer the sward the privilege of a cut.
Man moves towards machine, assuming simplicity.
But mower is asleep and will not fire.

At first he tries the simple fixes; fuel is present, spark plugs in place.
But the horticultural haircut remains undone,
As the tease of utility leads him to try louder, less sensitive approaches.

Meanwhile, the rotary monster relishes its narcoleptic interlude,
And the grass grows on.

A lone owl calls into the darkness;
Tonight there is no answering cry,
Only the soft susurration of leaves that have yet to fall,
and the murmur of two nearby trees embracing.

The water is inky and dark,
It envelops me like oil and I glide within it, foetal, like a newborn mermaid,
Her ivory skin weightless beneath the mirrored surface.

The woods rustle with life, awakened by the setting of the sun
and made audible by lack of human sound.
The wind wisps around branches, carving feathers in dark air
And I lose myself in the liquid, unsure where my edges are,
uncertain of my boundaries and my meaning.

I wish you were here with me,
Tenderly enclosing my soul with your softness, your hardness and your wet mouth.
I would glide then, and merge with you,
Two pale astronauts lost in the sea,
Lost to the world,
Lost to the unknowable shortness of life and love.

Floating  
Sixteen feet off the ground  
Reliving your touch  
I am a woman complete.  

You know me and you move me  
I am changed, lifted, elevated  
Enraptured by your knowing touch, your sensitivity and caress  
Your heat and your tenderness.  

Your strong male beauty overwhelms me  
As time evaporates  
And into the gap moves an instinctive sweetness  
That melts the very core of me.