13 12 07

The south wind has reached a storm, though still without rain. Outgoing tide is crossed by the force of the wind, spray flying high.

Whiteness of lichen rings on oak & the stems of birches, their peeling bark white as thighs, stand against a sky black as spilled ink, a silhouette in reverse.

Clothes pegs clack luminously along the clothes line back & forth like the beads of an abacus. A crow, just blacker than the sky, is torn away from the hill by the updraught & swoops down to a hollow like any gathered leaf.

Lurid is very close to lucid.