Gauze of Time

The body lay still taunted by the micro movements of the sea. It was a female one, of course. An aerial shot captured by chance in a world where no one is ever alone, even in death.

Three weeks earlier she had camped out on that same beach. Bought the smallest tent possible to act as skin repellent of water, sand and other. Curled up as ammonite of preservation, testing her resolve. She woke, alone, in the morning and ran through dunes that were people in the dark and found the edges of freedom.

Two weeks and three days earlier she was sent a photograph, time stamped in the wave of her sleeping without sound in her tent unrocked by fear. 3.03am, time of sleep. Hands of other holding the camera, taking the photograph of themselves outside her tent. Unseen faces of clocks, of hooded them. Only numbers, lit up in the photograph of dark.

Two weeks and two days earlier she had disposed of the tent, placed it inside a black plastic bag where the memory of the unseen face could not stare at her.

One day earlier, she had returned to the spot. Lain down as compass of herself, marking the sand with intent. Allowed the sea to wash veils of protection over toes that would not be tagged with tropes. Micro-movements building up in her mind, unseen by anyone.

Ten hours earlier she had looked at stars through the gauze of expectation and tried to reconfigure the tropes of nature, of all.

Seven hours earlier she had considered death but knew it was unlikely.

Five hours ago she was unsure if the tide was going in or out.

Ten minutes after this, she did not care.

Gauze of Time

Three hours on she looked up, and saw no eyes.

Seven minutes after this she slept in seas of wash with no engraving of stone, gentle and light in froth of uplifting.

Fifteen minutes ago, she lay in stillness of consumed.

Now, perhaps you think she that she is dead. But she is not.