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As the seabed swaps the salty brine for oceanic air, we see the beach rise from lacy waves.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 31, 2020.
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Upon the sunny beach, upon the rising gold, my eyes listen to the light as it plays upon seawater.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 31, 2020.
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When these boats of nature's tide, these free sailing sun-kissed branches, come to rest upon either pebbles or golden sands, they sit as kings adoring the seawater view.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 31, 2020.
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There is a soft song of the marram grasses, the green lullaby that speaks so well to the soul without even a whispered word.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 31, 2020.
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The softened hues of the beach at eventide are the colours of my ever-dreams.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 31, 2020.
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The sand is the most gentle hue of gold, almost earthen and muted, the humble star of the scene. I love this beach. I love the driftwood that comes upon the buoyant waves as tiny rescue boats. Then there is the seaweed, that flora of those salty waves, as deeply green as any high summer foliage. My favourite though, of everything that is here upon the softly rolling dunes, is the tall, tall grass that whispers so sweetly into the gusting breeze.

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The beach stretched out alongside the water, these constant friends chattering as the water comes in her reassuring way, as if her joy is to soothe the sand. And in her wake she gives the chance for life, for the rock pools to refill. Those briny waves come as rain to a dessert, a gift never repaid, as it always is with nature... the strong give, life thrives... and so it goes on.

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Upon this primrose sand, the hue as gentle on the eye as a vintage photograph, there is a steady warmth from the grains. Already the stars glow as if they have kept a pocket of the daytime to shine all through the night sky. Sometimes I think the earth and the moon choose to give of their borrowed warmth and light until the return of the sun, the brilliance forever promised at dawn. Until then, here I remain, breathing deeply of ocean carried air, listening to the percussion of waves that has been my lullaby since before I was a consciousness wrapped in human form.

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Jerry sat on the beach, his eyes moving from sand to stone, from rock pools to breaking waves. In the gentle spring sunshine he felt as if he were swimming in the briny aroma, as if the new rays of the day brought a frisson of energy to his finger tips. It was a day for letting his eyes stay open, as he were an old fashioned camera, remaining still while the image developed. The gulls brought their hight notes to the percussion of pebbles at the shoreline. It was a day for dreaming, for allowing time to move fast and slow.

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The rain gives of herself unto the ocean, each fragment becoming apart of the body of brine, of the waves and sea-lace. I hear each watery gift, softer than the patter on a rooftop, moving in subtle waves of its own according to the wind. I wonder if this is how music began, how mankind thought to conjure song and dance, by hearing the natural rhythms of nature. Upon the sand, the rain is almost silent, enriching the hue from cream to ears of summer maize.

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The sand is softly golden with just the right comforting warmth. To rest on the beach feels like a cosy hug, one only matched by the sunshine filled sky. Tom stretches out both arms and legs to look like a boy-starfish, his grin growing slowly into a broad smile. The only marker of time today is the sun above, the moments savoured by the waves that wash the sands in white lace.

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With browning legs curled under, dusted with sand like flour on bread, I sit close to the lapping waves. They feel warm and cool, like tea that's been forgotten and returned to. My fingers wiggle in the water, in these lips of the ocean as she sings. In this place I will remain until the tide is lower, scooping the sand that runs like cold lava through my star-fish fingers and onto the dry beach. With each handful I twist my body as if dancing in a chair, gazing at the falling sand. Below it rises a drip-castle, a sandcastle that looks for all the world like a melted candle. By sunset there will be a long skinny line of them following the ocean as she chases the moon.

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In twilight the beach was tinted sepia, the sand more orange, the water darker, our skin soft to the eye. We sat there, Tara to my left, Leon to my right, just taking in the evening and chatting in our characteristic pattern, the laughs and the serious intermingled.