Sea Roosts

After days of rain we’re in the midst of a dry, calm spell, and Swansea Bay is tranquil.  An evening sky of pastel blues, and shades of grey, reflects on the tiny ripples covering the sea as the tide creeps in, and there’s not a breath of wind, but the rains have left a cold, dank feel to the air.  A big wrack of brown kelp on the shore looks lifeless in the fading light, and I gradually make out oystercatchers moving about.  There’s just a few, no doubt eking out a last morsel before the tide forces them off the beach.  At this time of year, darkness comes early, and there are few visitors. Ironically these are some of the best days, when I can feel an intimate connection with life between the tides.

My walk along the shoreline crunches shells underfoot, disturbing the peace, so I sit in the sand dunes listening to the soft cry of the gulls and waders. I stay until the daylight is gone, as gulls continue to arrive from what seems every direction to their invisible sea roost on the sea. Some arrivals are visible in the glow from the streetlights, but soon disappear into the silence, landing somewhere on the glassy surface of the sea.  It’s wonderful.