Today was a day of travel. In my heart and head and in body as well.

The trip to Shoeburyness was partly through the snow. Yes, snow in March, on Easter Sunday.

The C2C rail line cut from the inner boroughs of London eastward, through the gentle hills of the country, past the little towns of fishermen and ended at the far side of the English island.

People were in the train but I didn’t notice them really. They were background effects as I was focused on the decoration of white fluffy snow lightly covering the green fields of the land.

Took a short break in Southend-on-Sea to get coffee and stretch my legs. Town centre – which was just off the train station – was quite nice, streets cut off from traffic so people could walk around. The Odeon cinema next to the coffee shop tempted me for a while but I moved on.  Had a little excitement here as I misplaced my train ticket but it was soon found.

Leigh-on-Sea was quite pretty to pass through; I was tempted to stop here too and look around. Loads of boats and fishermen-type shops. Rich in atmosphere.

The end of the line was in Shoeburyness. Train station is literally across the street from the sea. Can’t go much further than that.

The walk to the water’s edge was cold and rainy. But like the people in the train, this was just background noise. The cold doesn’t affect me like it used to, it seems.

In certain areas, upended boats lay stacked on each other, far away from the water’s edge. On a nice sunny day they would have been hired out by visitors; on a cold snowy rainy Spring day however, these were just colorful additions to the scenery, unused for today.

The sand was packed hard in most places, but I could see footprints of all sorts everywhere, from adults’ boots to children’s shoes to dog footprints dug deep in the sand. This was all that proved anyone had been here; today no one was there but me.

 

 

Tiny birds were flying just above the water’s edge, playing “catch-me-if-you-can” with the waves as they touched down on the sand. They flew in groups, and not alone.

Other types of birds were sitting on the water, bobbing up and down as the waves eased back and forth. They stayed separate from each other, just content in letting the water move them about.

By this time my shoes were already somewhat wet, having walked through grass and with the drizzle of snow and rain coming down. It’s ok; they were purchased for this kind of work.

The mixture of snow and rain made a fuzzy sound against my broken black umbrella. Sometimes when my breath came back against me it would cloud my glasses until I breathed back in again or held my breath. I could see things far off in the misty distance in the water but couldn’t tell if they were ships or not. Added some sense of mystery to the place.

Having come this far, I had to touch the water. I needed to feel why I was here.

The cold of the water burned my hand, long after I put my glove back on. But it was a nice burn, offset by the frothiness of the water and the sound and smell of the sea. I could feel life here in this cold burning water that plays with the birds.

I love the seaside. It’s where the ever-changing meets the never-changing; where the fluidity of motion creates constantly mobile works of art against the canvas of the barely-yielding ground. I can see how life as we know it started so long ago at the seaside.

My footprints will be gone from there soon, or covered up when someone else walks that way. Such is the nature of the place. But it will leave a mark in my mind and heart for a long time.

It stopped snowing on the way back, as I expected it would. Snow this far South doesn’t stay long, and certainly not near the water. It may even snow tomorrow; who knows these things?

I touched the North Sea today. It seems to have touched me back.

My children and close friends help me.  Even from afar.

It’s the little chats that help.

Don’t seem like much but they are nourishment in a cold place.

Standing in the forest

The scrubby brush nearby nearly engulfs me, surrounds me, wants to pull me down

The arms of the trees reach upwards, always upwards

Too close, the gases choke my breath, some perfuméd, some sick with death

We wait

The doors open

much jostling, not a word

the trees move onward, outward, rushing ever rushing upwards

to make room for more

rebuilding the forest under the ground

There is hope here, and beauty as well.

There must be – I can’t believe otherwise.

I must believe better things are here.

I must.

I observe the hard-felt faces

of those pressed ’round my plight

They see nought of what I was

just that which they can take.

My dashéd hopes return with nothing

as if nought had ever been.

When was that moment

that sliver of time

that deciding breakpoint

when we, as narrator above this all,

would say

This, my friends

(as we would say in hushéd tone)

…was the moment it all fell down

Floods of people

spilling over the smelly grimy greasy ground.

Gingerly stepping ’round the rubbish

left behind by fellow travellers.

How to see beauty in all this?

This path sickens me.

Yet here I must remain

a drop in the flood of men.

This pain is new;

the fire still stings my heart.

Where then shall I go?

The ones who should listen will not hear me

My grief echoes theirs; building up their dull tormént.

Hear then, mine ear, my cry, my fall –

my release, if but a while.

Their eyes are all I see

All else, reverts to black

And then, not even then

would I peer into those holes.

My gaze averts to dirt and ground

to halt a breach of peace.

From above, a booming, thunderous crash

– the thump-thump-thump of hell

What, perchance?

Missiles, war, angry angels?

No –

’tis the ungainly strides

of the looming folk o’erhead.

My sleep – it is unwell.

For to ask of those in higher places

to tread less heavily

I fear their wrath to chase.

Nay, tonight my sleep shall break anew

Whilst above, large feet will tread.