A shock of black seagulls form a wave over this house and beneath the blue grey sky they delight my keen and hungry eye. Bones of sea bass and fragments of green don the table top, knives askew, dogs a-begging. Samphire devoured - a temporary pleasure, next month it will be no longer available and so we eat it with silent devotion, the weed of the sea doused in lemon juice sates our August palates.
I muse on names. Honesty. Niche. Aware. Names for food. So much is eaten up by deceit that I battle with my integrity. I serve it to the table in reverence. I bow to life. I hesitate to nibble on bones of deceit. So much is left unspoken by those in control. Dare the small person to speak out and then, what, stay, remain silent to assure participation.
Brown rice never sticks. The pan comes out clean like nothing ever happened and green tea is a salve for the soul and the sky tonight is a huge meringue of whipped clouds moving before the forecast storm.
My feet are bare. I like bare feet. It is the least I can do as a human being. H tosses the dishes about in the kitchen, the racket enormous. Bones and seeds and debris gathered together and I decide that I love the sound. He moves in the kitchen, he lives, curses, fumbles and gathers the litter together and puts it into one cohesive place and for that I am grateful.
Bells chime. The seagulls blown away and they were surely not black at all, but for five seconds they were to me and so, and I will move on into another day and night and all that appears to be this moment will not be at all the same when I pause to think of it again. For all the world the seagulls might be pink and H might break the dishes on the ground and stamp out in anger and I might stand there and see something I have never seen before and then I'll see that this is life and what comes to me is what makes it all the more special. Purple seagulls - elegant swoops in an orange sky.