Spring. March, 2018.
Worthing Beach, West Sussex
Worthing beach is a sand and shingle beach at the foot of the South Downs. At low tide large stretches of sand and rock pools are exposed.
Somewhere, behind the slow grey cloud the sun is setting. Leaning on the stern of a fishing boat, the ragged black flags of marker buoys are harried and hustled by the wind. Underfoot the shingle and pebbles wear the blue luminescence of dusk. A pale weathered rope snakes away across the beach, ready to be pulled tight and haul its boat captive to the sea once more.
Stormy seas have left the beach floor rich with the spoils of storm wash. Weed and wood mix with bone, shell and sand. Spiral wrack seaweed, bleached and calcified by the acidic oceans sits above the stones as though gently folded and arranged.
Nearby a smooth chalk palette, shaped and
Bored by the waves reflects the fading sunlight
.
Broken, detached by the sea from the white face
Of the Seven Sisters and washed along the coast it rests,
Waiting for its journey to begin again.
The wind picks up its cold persistence, whistling at the ear. The smell of the sea carries you forward toward the water’s edge. The low sky is filled by flocking gulls and carrion crow. At the back the young birds call out as they struggle in the wind.
In a pebble smooth hollow whelk egg cases cluster together, blown like coastal tumbleweed to temporary shelter and respite. Soft drips of freezing rain begin to gently fall.
A blackened hull of driftwood tells the story of a thousand tides. The twisted surface is clothed in purple and green algae. Dark fronds of Toothed wrack cling to knots and etches. Suspended above the mottled surface the carapace of a young lobster.
The crows gather in pairs, digging at the sand with stout beaks. At the tide line gulls noisily jostle for space.
At the edge of the sands, dashed
By the birds, a crab shell.
The stars are mapped in
Dot and pimple across its back.
Walking onto the sands the noise of the town fades to the sea. Bird, wind and tide take control of the dusk. Among the rocks the seaweed lies flat, waiting to fan and flow in the returning waves. A small pitted rock peers like the eye of a mackerel from beneath the running flames of red weed.
The sea roars and rushes as it begins its journey back onshore. The wet sands catch the orange lights of the beachfront, reflecting them back in rivulets and tracks.
From the flocking birds overhead a single crow breaks and dives toward a rival rooting on the beach. As it swoops the other bird staggers into the air.
They meet with the thump of flesh and
Bone echoing in a rib cage.
With a cry they dance in mid air for a moment.
Wings, feet and beaks in battle.
They twist and part back to the wind.