So, Suffolk...Walberswick to Dunwich, where the sea swallowed the shore. And back again. UnHobbitlike. No gold found. Just a hagstone. Good luck, they say. Oh really, I say.
Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad...
They might be giants...sand silhouettes...
A stand of trees, a stripe of shore, a slim slither of sea...
The marshes...the cry of a curlew... There is someone coming...a warning to the curious?
Slow water, lazy eels of streams. What was that film, the one set on a canal that turns into a river that turns into the sea? That image of the lost, beyond lonely, heading to oblivion?
A cross selfie - a woman of straw sans substance.
