To the beach early, to leave a stone. This one may be found, before the tide takes it as Whitesands will be busy, but then the beach is big, maybe no one will walk past it.
We walk down to the sea, and a gannet hunts just off shore, white arrow diving in the surf.
Ivy paints her ragged self in sand and water. She is in a reflective mood.
I love the mirror world of dogs.
We walked to where the creature made of stone drinks from the pool cupped in his arms.
Then we sought out bowls carved in stone by tide and time, filled with salted sea water, their mirror faces reflecting sky.
And I have Simon’s stone in my pocket. This one is more special.
I walk the length of the beach to find a place for it. He loves Whitesands, and Pembrokeshire. By now, as I write, as you read, the tide will have come in, maybe washed over it. It may swirl and whirl around Whitesands Bay until the gold is rubbed away and the stone itself ground down to dark sand. Or it may be found. I threw it into the pool. It landed, hare side up.