The Writing House

This was my original my Writing House, a fisherman's hut above the high tide line in Church Ope Cove.  The only way was on foot, it was a long climb down and a weary way up so I would spend days at a time there, friends were always welcome to sit down for a while - the kettle was always on.  It was good to take time to absorb the peace, all you could hear was the cry of gulls and the sound of waves pulling the pebbles on the shore.

Pebbles on the Shore
       Alone
       no sound but the sucking of the sea
      pulling the pebbles on the shore . 

Solitude
       peopled with the presence of the past
       no longer tangible yet real today.  

Invisible
      crowding and crying ‘come
       join us and be one with us’.