The Copper Coast

Salt rimed the rusted anchors, abandoned where the tide reaches only on the swollen autumn moons. The scent of kelp hangs heavy, a bruise upon the afternoon air.

We walked along the splintered pier, watching the gulls carve empty circles, tracing the shoreline’s slow retreat. The earth forgets what the water claims, grain by silent grain.

A lighthouse beam slices the growing dusk, a rhythmic pulse against the iron waves. We leave no footprints in the shifting sand, only the hollow echo of the wind sweeping the slate clean.