A bouquet of lyme grass

The restored fishermens houses have opened their eyes and ears, so the salty summer wind can clear the air between furniture and carpets.

Dust collections are replaced by fine sand, which the wind scatters between thumb and forefinger, while the gulls that have spotted the roof-even-table with squirming, stranded small fish, has folded their umbrellas and changed their waltz-like flights out with quick-step by water’s edge, to avoid the beach cleaning wet swab, which jealously and dutifully sliding back and forth. It will not allow the seagulls to eat in peace, and grind meanwhile the horns of the stones that not themselves yet have overcome them.

The sea recites clear, steady and assertive, it’s suggestive mantra, and behind the houses hanging salt embalmed dab to dry on a string with clothespins in the collars, and the matresses are filled with new lyme grass.

Where the dunes can not reach up, the sun vagaries grass and flowers. A lizard falls into a reverie on a rock, and dune rose bush has got an eagle feather in it’s hat.