Obsidian Tides

The grey water folds over itself, a heavy slate collapsing in slow motion against the jagged, basalt teeth of the shore. Foam hisses through the gaps, a frantic breath exhaled by the deep.

Further out, the surface is hammered iron, pitted by the cold wind that sweeps from somewhere beyond the pale horizon. It carries the scent of ancient salt, of crushed kelp and silent, drowned things.

We stand at the edge of this vast lung, watching it rise and fall in the failing light. There is no urgency in its rhythm, only the slow, inevitable grinding down of stone into sand, of sand into nothing.