Diffused morning, soft tower through soft glow.
Pale edges make out gelatinous forms.
Cold fends warmth, our savior–grey.
Through the glass turnstiles and on to the fields,
on sea-cold velvet lay historical prints,
and on, into the grey, and on, toward the strand.
Softened edges- towering lights and looming sea.
I am here. We are here.
Jagged stone, white laced foaming firth.
And looming, of course,
We have done good things today;
Listening, also hearing.
Sight without our eyes getting in the way
While we move through the sand.
The North Strand.