Estelle Jackson

April 13th, 1977, England
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Achnahaird

Squinting against the early morning sun,
Running barefoot down the hill.
This is what dreams are made of!
Rough paved path gradually gives way
To sandy ground punctuated
By thick tufts of grass.
Excitement builds.
Uncomfortable heat of neoprene suit
Is more than worth the future joy.
Jump, scramble, bound...
Pure sand awaits.
So soft and fine,
Yet searing with heat
Despite the day's youth.
Particles gather between toes
Until dampness begins to seep
Up through the sand,
Compacting it
Into something much easier to walk on.

Ah! The coolness of the sea
Soothes baking feet
While they leave behind their imprints;
Temporal memories.
Rhythmic waves create their own inimitable music.
Sunlight glistens so keenly on the crystal clear water
That it almost hurts to look.
Eyes closed,
Feet keep moving, ever forwards
Though slower now.
Blissful cool, clean water
Bathes sweltering legs;
Slowly inches over torso.
With wild abandon,
Whole self is flung into
This beautiful, cold, crisp
Exhilarating and essential ocean.
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