We walk the beach washed clean with the big swell on a high tide. There are no shells and no sea weed but I see a beautiful stranded seahorse, still and silent, sightless eyes wide open on a long thin snout, full white breast above a swollen green belly, so beautiful and unusual, so small and fragile, I pick it up in a bag and take it home.
I want to preserve it. To bring it back to (a different sort of) life.
It smells of the sea and disintegration so I put it on a plate in the sun to dry but the flies swarm and Bronte circles so I slip it under the grill.
I go to bring in the washing from the line and the grill slips my mind until I smell the cindery crispness of an overdone seahorse.
Instead of a creation, I have created a cremation.
I sweep it into the bin.
This week I’m lending out my blog to my friends. Today’s post is by Bruce, in a wistful mood I think.