image: scvincent – walking on air
There it was again – that lonely, whistling, whispering sound. The sea-witch wind against the rocks. For this would be the place to find a mystic. Hard granite, soft peat. The blurring of land and sea by the oozing bay bottom at tide’s turn. Clouds sketching out the delineation horizon point.
I didn’t not come to seek a witch, nor anything of the fey past. I came with my camera and a broken heart. Better my heart than the Nikon I thought. Taking pictures made me focus on something outside of myself and my stupid petty life. Editing, manipulating, playing with the results continued the distraction. “Don’t think, don’t feel” was my mantra in those days.
The sea witch called again; her song louder, the pipes sweeter. I swirled, whirled to the strange rhythm. With each song cycle, I removed another item of clothing. Dancing down to the bay at the turning of high tide. Dancing naked, feeling the cold sting of sea against my skin. But the song kept calling, telling me not to yield to the cold or the salty depths. Just keep dancing out beyond the breakers. Out to sea. Out to free.
Written for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto: walking on air