Dartmouth Castle

I don’t pay attention much, but I can see enough to see the lie of this postcard. Mostly what I see is rain spatters, droplets on glasses, and mist. Even the greenery is grey and faded. At low tide the stippled water runs over rucked sheets. If rucked sheets were river creased black stone; any metaphor will break down under scrutiny. Then the waves come rushing back, breathtaking, thought stopping, white, foam-like Neptune’s horses throwing themselves across the water and breaking their necks on the slimed stones. Spray soaks castle walls and wooden steps seemingly designed to send me slipping and staggering, and I forget the irony, oh the irony, of sunny postcard skies over calm postcard seas.