The Rusting of the Tide

The water pulls back its iron hand, leaving behind the salt-crust of centuries, a grit that remembers the weight of ships.

Beneath the grey light, the mud-flats shimmer like bruised oil, holding the silence of a thousand lost anchors.

Small crabs scuttle through the red-brown silt, carving runes that the next moon will erase without a single word of regret.

The air is thick with the scent of wet copper, and the horizon is just a jagged edge where the sea finally gives up its ghost.