Breathing with a snorkel
The surfer leers over the smoldering sea
Takes up the seaweed soiled waxed manuscript
And paddles out of the basement
Walks down to the beach and what remains
Of the water and casts out the paper fish net
Into a set of scaling waves
Lit with a lustrous industrial moon
The waves curling letters in blue neon.
From "Watermarks from a Night Spring" by Joe Linker
Above photos courtesy of Jemima Stubbs (https://www.facebook.com/JemimaStubbsPhotography)
Above photos courtesy of Thomas Cleeton.
The surfer leers over the smoldering sea
Takes up the seaweed soiled waxed manuscript
And paddles out of the basement
Walks down to the beach and what remains
Of the water and casts out the paper fish net
Into a set of scaling waves
Lit with a lustrous industrial moon
The waves curling letters in blue neon.
From "Watermarks from a Night Spring" by Joe Linker
Above photos courtesy of Jemima Stubbs (https://www.facebook.com/JemimaStubbsPhotography)
 |
| This is me. |
Above photos courtesy of Thomas Cleeton.
Above photos courtesy of Evie Gruchala.
For three glorious days we lived the dream. A band of city folk abandoned the conditions of their lives to go explore the Welsh coast, carrying all they would need in rucksacks and carrier bags. Together they created a camp, a mini Utopia, where the children ran care free and sat round camp fires laughing until late. As the sun climbed slowly to become a tenant of the sky, they surfed until bone weary, hair and skin slick with sea salt. At night they climbed into tents to sleep the deep, contented sleep of happy people, cold sand in sleeping bags reminders of earlier joys.
Then they surfed some more, ate some more, they laughed until sides became sore. In the sunset they reflected upon the natural beauty, the wonderment of the children so infatuated with the ocean that they had to be dragged out goose pimpled and hungry. Romances blossomed, friendships strengthened in vigor and acquaintances became confidants. In transit homeward bound they hugged like siblings dragging, their feet at the prospect of reality.
We are the Land Locked Surfers and this is our story.
