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Each morning when I draw back the curtains and see my little bay, different from each time previously. If I lived till a hundred years or more I'd find it exceedingly difficult to define these subtle changes even with the artists brush. How, indeed would the poet moved by the muse approach it to supply verses of his art. I don't realy know. But the image that gets my brain functoning - gets the millions of cells going in such a remarkable way awakening my intericate sense of perception to an all feeling inistinct.
Britain, a veritable island, surrounded by seas, has left its special mark on the ancient and modern lore of the sea, since the first brave soul soul fashioned a basic coracle to cross a river mouth or cast a line to fish or even be more adventurous over the brine.
As I bring my little bay into focus again, my imigination is kindled towards my dear Scotland with a history of ships and sails; boats of every kind and size. But let us not at this moment languish in sadness about the losses and non -returnings when beauty proves to be cruel.
But as I continue to gaze on my bay where the eider ducks visit and the sea gulls cry; the oyster - catcher stabs his long red beak; I say to myself, my imigination could be anybodys, with no beginning or end.