I find myself standing again on shifting shingle, on that dark deserted shore, staring again over the crashing breakers towards the distant, gloom-lost horizon where hope holds court for others, but not for me. All is noise and foam and stinging spray and the smell of the sea, and all is wind and low, turbulent cloud that smothers and obscures and murders the stars.
The only colour is grey. Even the white foam is grey, as if something has happened to it to make it dirty, the result of some hateful contamination that took place a very long time ago, yet does not disperse or lift or reduce or slacken its ruination.
O sea of desolation. O shore of shattered devastation, is there never to be any relief?
So I go back to the top of the beach, to a little ramshackle hut I have constructed over the weeks from debris that has washed up out of the greyness, and in this rudimentary shelter of silvery flotsam I sit quietly, trying not to move.