down bilsdean creek where fresh and salt water meet the bladderwrack rehydrating incoming tide chases tiny trout upstream to the overhanging hazel branch sanctuary of dappled dancing sunlight where they flit back and forth under the ever watchful kingfisher shimmering blue glints of nervous anticipation
by whelk denuded tidal pools, Freddy the refugee with his rusty bike, tin can kettle and bent safety pin waits patiently for his stream water to boil a hip flask of vinegar and folded envelope of pepper are produced with theatrical flourish from a tattered baling twine belted overcoat and placed on the rock
from Fife the haunting groans of the fog horns echo around the mist cloaked cliffs where Glasgow boys once set up their easels and squeezed red ochre onto pallettes of roof slate to sing praises to nature the water boils in the smoke blackened tin can the mussels open in surrender among the whelks the tide inches forward grinding empty shells to sand