A Kind of Play of Surfaces

A kind of play of surfaces, for what are surfaces other than interfaces? The meeting of two different impressions where one substance throws to light the differences of the other. The waves move rhythmically in a corner of my view and shine like flashes of light caught on hammered pewter. The sea, framed by sugar paper mountains and the little box houses that look out with hooded windows are all cast in hues of shadow and are all still but for the waves. The sun shines on me and my squinting expression will be tan-lines when I go home.

The sweet solitary chirp of a singular bird slips into the space between car engines and dogs barking. It pierces the distance as if to emphasise height, for what is distance other than a view? The clouds have become a heavy blue and the sun’s rays are beaming with the certainty of geometry, a heavenly pathway if I ever saw one. Earlier today the harbour was awash with swollen ocean, smacking pungent black weed at my feet. Frothy and sensual, the green made by a sea churned in wild storms to a brooding murky mint, all vital movement and white spray. The sun is sinking now and the light is soft golden as a tired finale to the day and the hubbub of the street rises but can’t touch this gentle vision, opened and unfolding even as the light fades. The sun moves so quietly to the little bird's song.