Thunderstorm coming, it's not only the sky that is the colour of old ten pence pieces, the whole world is. Standing outside on the patio in the dark, feeling the swirl of the wind and trying to ignore the suburban surroundings, waiting for your imagination to carry you away to a shoreline. Thinking crashing waves, and the rubbley rumbling of the water turning pebbles over and over as it retreats back to the sea, gathering itself for another hurl at your feet. Waiting for the rain to start so you can convince yourself you taste salt in the wetness on your lips. Waiting for the peace you feel being on the edge of things, liminal, neither of the land or of the sea, no expectations other than to be there. The air growls.
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