A place exists where granite lives side by side
with granite, like the world’s first birth. Granite upon granite, rising
skyward, stretching as far as the eye can see. Uneven, placed carelessly, rock
upon rock, overhanging in some places, cavernous in others, parts of each stone
chipped and dented with ruts like God-created steps. Some blackened by salt
water or bleached by the unforgiving sun, speckled with yellow lichen.
And beneath, a foaming swirling mass of froth and
bubble. A pure, virginal white – untouched by man. Throwing itself, forcefully
and sacrificially against the eternal granite, dissolving into a million salty
tears as despair sets in. Still it beats the stones, washing round the base of
the eruption, ceaselessly, relentlessly, one wave washing against another, into
another and smothering the fists and fingers of the universe, the form of which
would still be recognisable to Eve in her first glance across the world. Yet
still it torments, turning and returning, never weary, never battered. And the
rock never moves, no stone ever tumbles. The sea retreats, beaten, and advances
for attach again. It cannot make a dent upon the granite, never carve the
whisper of an impression ….
And in writing it the moment is lost, the memory
destroyed.
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