Between Islands

             Donning my neoprene shoes I prepare to walk on water. It is only a thin film, no miracles here other than the ebb and flow of a Spring Tide revealing a horseshoe of sand bars normally six feet under or more between Islands. It is an odd sensation to stride out on to land normally hidden by tides, but last night a blood red super moon hung in the heavens casting her spell and today the miraculous is made possible for all mortals.
             There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
             New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
             It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.