It's Thursday before I get to walk your walk this week. The family are all here and life has changed from calm to deliciously chaotic. But you don't seem to hold a grudge at neglect: you have a pod of dolphins waiting for me as I make my way down the stairs.
I'm not the only one on the move. Shells are walking too, marking their passage with minutely churned up sand. They are clustered in community at the base of rocks and lurking solitary in narrow niches.
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Rockpools glint in the sun.
You offer a bouquet amongst the rocks: the large, round, furcated be-veined leaves of geranium, a trail of foliage in a crevice, flourishing coastal rosemary, and a sponge, lifted by human hands I would guess, possibly yours, in the hope that I'd encounter the cliff at just that point.
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And I haven't even started on rockface.
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