Good Intentions

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.



  1. You’re an incredible writer! I love your descriptions. It brought many emotions and thoughts to mind- appreciation of beauty, nature, and the fragility of life.

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