Empty, lonely, desolate.
She feels so small, straining her eyes to see the sea which reaches the horizon. The eternity of reaching water. She follows the shoreline drifting along on the breeze, feet weighing heavy in the wet sands.  A tiny grain of sand gets lost in the swathes of others; one shell much like the other.
Washed up debris lay strewn in attempted neat lines. Shells, seaweed and waste from lands afar. A drinks can from so long ago it had the old fashioned ring pull, presumably it had had been bobbing it's way around the world for thousands of days before finally reaching land in North Norfolk.


 We took a trip to Brancaster beach at the end of December, the vast stretch of sand echoed with footprints of visitors long gone. The deafening silence pierced only by the scream of the wind, leaving salty kisses on my hair.... I gather locks and smell the scent to reminisce the encounter,

Sophie