It is half winter, half spring, and Barbara and I are standing confronting the ocean. Its mouth is open very wide, and it has dug up its green, throwing it, throwing it at the shore. You say it is angry. I say it is like a kicked Madonna. Its womb collapses, drunk with its fever. We breathe in its fury.
I, the inlander, am here with you for just a small space. I am almost afraid, so long gone from the sea. I have seen her smooth as a cheek. I have seen her easy, doing her business, lapping in. I have seen her rolling her hoops of blue. I have seen her tear the land off. I have seen her drown me twice, and yet not take me. You tell me that as the green drains backward it covers Britain, but have you never stood on that shore and seen it cover you?
We have come to worship, the tongues of the surf are prayers, and we vow, the unspeakable vow. Both silently. Both differently. I wish to enter her like a dream, leaving my roots here on the beach like a pan of knives. And my past to unravel, with its knots and snarls, and walk into ocean, letting it explode over me and outward, where I would drink the moon and my clothes would slip away, and I would sink into the great mother arms I never had, except here where the abyss throws itself on the sand blow by blow, over and over, and we stand on the shore loving its pulse as it swallows the stars, and has since it all began and will continue into oblivion, past our knowing and the wild toppling green that enters us today, for a small time in half winter, half spring.