Every Grain of Sand

She sells sea shells on the sea shore.....

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need

When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed

There’s a dyin’ voice within me reaching out somewhere

Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair

Bob Dylan

Every Grain of Sand

(1981)

December 12th, 2024. This would be my (Amanda's and my) fortieth wedding anniversary, but, hey!  Every day is something.  Every day is someone's birthday, someone's death day.  Time spins on, picking up fluff, leaving stuff behind.  

What you can do?

I set out from home, in Snettisham, and walk over Ken Hill, and across the marsh, filling now with wetness, becoming slowly impassable, to the shore of the Wash.

The sky is heavy, though clouds and azure vie for attention. The tide is well out and there is no one about. I head towards Hunstanton, a six and a half mile walk, to make the best of a winter's day.  

The recent storms have caused havoc amongst the inhabitants of the estuary, and there are hundreds of lost-life forms. Starfish, wrecked and lifeless abound in different configurations:

Their 'little' (what does that say?) lives drowned away by the whipping of the wind and the turmoil of the sea.  

Youthful flatfish, maybe dabs, or immature plaice (help me someone?) turn their right-sided eyes to the sky in premature oblivion:

Razor clams:

Whelks:

Their spent seed-cases:

Crabs:

And urchins:

All lie exhausted and empty on the beach, the impulses and instincts of life extinguished by the very nature that gave them being.

Human intervention makes no difference:

The sky lowers. Drizzle blurs my vision. A flag shrugs in the distance:

Someone wanders into my sightline, another lonely figure in an empty seascape. It could be good to exchange thoughts, but there is some unspoken barrier between us, so I keep moving on:

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea

Sometimes I turn, there’s someone there, other times it’s only me

I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man

Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

Forty years ago today something wonderful came to pass, but now it is over and the world spins on. I am so grateful for the love we had, and for all that is still good in this world.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake

Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break

In the fury of the moment I can see the Master’s hand

In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand

Bob Dylan

Every Grain of Sand

Copyright © 1981 by Special Rider Music

Now, please repeat after me, one of my paternal grandfather's favourite tongue twisters:

She sells sea shells on the sea shore......