When the River Becomes Your Home


When the river becomes your home, when Virginia, with stones stuffed deep in her pockets, seems more romantic than tragic, you learn two things about yourself.

First, you were born in the wrong time and second, you’ve reached the limit of what you can handle in this nightmare called life.

It doesn’t mean you won’t go on. It doesn’t mean you won’t keep putting one foot in front of the other. It just means you’ll never be the same. It means the joy of walking is lost in a tempting image of Virginia with stones stuffed deep in her pockets.

Photos by Robin Dalton
Climping Beach, Sussex

Something Beautiful [a drabble]

I am looking out to sea with the sound of a mournful train whistle fading in the distance.

There are crushed flowers beneath my feet.

He said, “Watch closely. The humpbacks are migrating south. If you’re lucky you’ll see powerful exhalations of breath escape through the tops of their heads..”

I think that now he is gone all breath, all breathing, all signs of life are grand miracles.

I have been holding my breath. Just as I let go to live again, I see it.

Far off in the distance a whale blessing me with the sight of his breathing.