My Church of Choice

As we walk back along the rough concrete walkway from Rottingdean to Brighton, we squint through chalk dust whipped up from the cliffs and watch immense bridal veils of foam blowing up and over the distant Marina.

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Of Settling

Pebbles shift and settle beneath my feet, not so much crunching as sliding into place. Their patterns and lack-thereof are gently familiar as I march toward an almost-imperceptible blaze on the darkening beach.

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