The Yachts of Salcombe Estuary

Look at the yachts, with their brightly coloured sails. And the seagulls! Let’s see how many we can count. There’s one, and another. I only see two, but I hear many more. See them soar towards the sea; their shrieks scratch at my bones. I sit with my toes in the sand, watching the sand spiders hurry away confusedly as I create mountains in front of them. The albatross sits atop its nest; screaming its hunger at the sea occasionally, awaiting its mate’s return for a chance to end its pangs. Over there is the rotting carcass of a rowing boat. Its ribs reach from the sand like they are desperate to feel warmth again, even if it’s only from the sun and not from a beating heart. Its spine is half-buried by the sand, sinking to paralysing depths. Its heartlessness aches familiarities, yet the anemones keep it company, clinging to its bones. The sun escapes from behind a cloud, its rays touching the outreached tendrils of the anemones. The children laugh on the beach, the smell of the fish and chips wafting down from the promenade, the tinkling tune drifting along the road from the ice-cream van.
Sand blasted daisies sway in the park, their yellow faces smiling at the sun as the sea breeze tickles their petals and the grass dances in rhythm. And I lay back, the children running around me, flicking sand at each other and screeching like the gulls overhead.