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I am on a beach, The warm sand between my toes. I hear waves crash on the shore, I smell the salt through my nose. I have a daughter, Tara. Black hair and green eyes. High cheek bones like her mother.
As the sapphire-blue waves softly washed up on the dry shore, a sinister-looking figure stood, clutching her high shoes in her hand tightly.
I ignite the sparks, The sparks between us.. They fly past and though the horizon. The years I cried an ocean. Where swept away by a brisk gale of wind...
Summer heat on bared, warm skin, Sun tan lotion, rubbed on thin, Harlot-red: my lipstick shade, Bright martini, ready made.
On Port A Chabhlaigh beach, one sunburnt afternoon I retraced childhood footsteps, between grassy sandy dune.
When I travel to a location of which is names "the spot", this is what my eyes translate into electrical signals, every person of whom is currently upon the beach has their attention directed at...
I sit there. On the beach. Scratching my fingers through the cool sand. The wind ruffles my hair. And chills my bare feet. The water is unbearably cold. Sending a chill down my spine.
The ocean was a thunderous grey but for the horizon, the sun broke through in blades of magnificent light that shimmered on the distant wave faces.