AFTER THE HURT
We wince, grimace, we deny, we blush, we withdraw, we stumble, grapple for a hold then surge wildly with our hurt, to our sanctuary, for security, for support, for sympathy which we so badly lack. Our egos soothed, our pride mended, our resolve restored, our courage renewed. We make our way out of the zone of our sanctuary to the swirl of life, kingdom of actuality, the playfield of fortune, the polarity of cause and effect. We stand our ground, stake our claim, carve our indentations upon eternity. 8>)
AT THE DOCKS
Pungence of the coast enter the nostrils before sight glimpses the first outlines of the docks. As we gaze around the coastal settlement , all manner of architecture, decorations, signage and paraphernalia suggest an ode to the sea and a boatman's lot.
The utilitarian magnetism of a rugged painted scene experienced live. Water's surface beside ravaged outskirts of the docks. Rusty submerged pillars and barnacles, so common a sight, they go unnoticed.
Foam formations and breaking foam. Reflections of the surface on a good sunny day like fluid sequins , they gleam. Vessels off to the wide open and vessels approaching. The mutable tide and current. Bobbing buoys and crafts.
An assemblage of scattered generators, expelled fumes, sputtering engines with cadence of speech merge to form a union of din. Picture perfect for a tourist. It's an average day in the lives of those whose fortunes depend on the day's catch and nature's dictates.
Tobacco smoke, grunts, gruff ramblings, murmurs, occasional raised volume, wellingtons, raincoats, overcoats and windbreakers. Footsteps upon tarred passages. Shadows of beings cast on cobblestone walkways. The stooped, hunched, sprightly and nimble.
It's a rare sight for a pristine boat to be moored at the docks or a seafarer in uncreased gear, whose presence is devoid of telltale salty scent. Eyes accustomed to the regular scene spies a newcomer with ease. 8>)