The liquid sunlight mixes with the morning mist above the hills along the coastline. Inexhaustible waves bring new objects for a tail-wagging Lucy, and an ageing Jonty to run with; their paw prints soon erased by the incoming tide this early morning. I’m grateful my footprints were never left in concrete. I’d be ashamed to see all those places left; the loves voiced, and the goodbyes never spoken.
Now, sitting on this rock, Jonty panting at my feet, belly wet with salt water, tail limp and no longer brushing the sand, we watch a youthful Lucy…run…run…run.
I am completely at peace within myself. No more the horror of midnights, the whisperings of the celestial tide bringing me those five minutes of uncertainty. God nor gold could move me from this place, north or south. So here I remain; the wanderer, the adventurer, the gypsy in me spent. No more inns with their green doors, harbors left, or ponies ridden on the carousel.
I’ve become the helper, the helping hand, just a man walking with his dogs along the shore, treading ever onward from all those places left.