Georges Sand Sees

        George Sand sees a bloodied albatross bruised and swollen, washed up on the beach. It has been disgorged by the waves and rolled, over and over, in the rhythm of a spring tide, high up the shore line. It lies half hidden beneath knots of bloated seaweed drying in the salt-damp air. Do you smell iron or umami? Flavours of the world hidden in the wind. He walks on, knowing it is too late for the bird. It is carrion now, the other side of the spectrum. The crows will come or the tide; some means of transportation to the new world. Something will claim the flightless soul and write it in to the tail of a new mariner.  Can you the shadows growing longer? Death has come to claim his own,  or is it just the wind breathing in his ear? This is where the madness stalks him, between shadows of spirits and sense. He is the albatross: a ghost of himself, lamenting the free glide of flight as he’s carried in binding currents, a wingspan of freedom away from airbourne delight. Oh! To be splashed like a sea-dog: old spice, salt and a hint of herring. Oh! To be a bird on the wing. It cannot be.

         Do you feel the stones beneath your shoe? George Sand crunches off down the beach, grinding decayed shell and rock beneath his heels dragged by an internal compass.  He’s heading who knows where. A bland journey of one foot infront of another. His thoughts stay behind with the albatross and he looks out to sea through the mizzle scanning the hinted horizon for explanation, understanding of life’s mysteries. Does the black beetle know the way? Someone holds the plan in the palm of their hand; a microscopic blueprint. How can he hide the secret? Maybe it’s written in the stars. Otherwise it is just endless searching, uncertainty.  Maybe that is the key to unlocking it all: Understanding the true value of those things hiding in plain sight. 

Death will resolve it perhaps. (Does it count if you close your eyes?)  When we reach between bruised skies and rainbows will we suddenly understand. Is that it? George Sand scuffs his feet kicking a pebble and smiles. On a day like today he will take it at face value, breathe the salted air, feel the crust beneath his feet and hear the ocean sigh upon the shore, reaching for the gargle and gush of rockpools. He will wait, listen: the world has many languages and they are no less beautiful for being lost in translation.