Rambling at the end.

The beach hut is some way from the shore, sitting alone where the sand begins to mount into dunes; it is difficult to find.

A small wooden staircase rests on the sand like an anchor and from the small terrace you can sit and see the waves; the smell of seaweed and shells carries here on the breeze.

The hut is probably no older than I, but it seems to have been here forever, the stairs are worn by the passage of time, scoured by sand and in need of repair; the paint has the look of forgotten.

And yellow.

A forgotten sunrise.

The door is blue.

There is a name on the door, written in black. The letters seem to flow with the movement of tides, but it may be imagination.

The Venice Pavilion.

On the terrace a hammock is strung and next to the hammock a small wooden chair like those Spanish fisherman sit upon at the end of the day.

The door is locked, but a key hangs on a small brass hook over the P of Pavilion; you will only notice it if you look closely: it turns softly in the lock, no rust betrays the opening.

The floor, like everything else is wooden, probably cedar and softly varnished; when you enter here from sea and sand, the footprints are framed by memories of Californian forests; until they dry and disappear.

Then there are only memories.

And the haunting cry of seagulls.

A small bed hangs suspended by ships’ ropes; it is small but big enough for two. It will shift when you turn in your sleep, yet no one is sleeping. To the side are a sink, and a stove – It can provide both heat and food, yet no one is cooking.

And it is not yet cold.

Though winter is coming.

The frost will find it hard to hide the sand, but it will.

Snow will settle softly on the roof.

When you stood in the hut, the sea still part of your hair, drips fell at your feet; they could look like tears when the sun was low.

You carved your name by the door.

The hut smells of home, but it isn’t - a sweet remains of garlic mixed with old varnish, lilac blossom and thyme. Dried iris petals stick to the sink, their skin looks ancient.

Once the hut was full of flowers – wild iris gathered in the dunes, poppies from the roadside and thistles that grew by the lighthouse.

At night the beams of messages sent out to sea stroke the windows, but enter not; the curtains are drawn.

When the day brakes, turning the wet sand into silver, they will remain closed.

Once it was not like that, the dawn’s first light from the east would fall upon your arm as you slept.

Not now.

You stopped coming to this beach many moons ago.

Some full, some new.

The moon now is full - it sits over the bay, dark in night and shines with the beauty of a pearl brought freshly from the deep.

The light reflects from the key as I turn it in the lock and hang it over the P of Pavilion.

For one last time I leave my prints in the cold sand.

I will not return again.

This beach hut is too sad.

Oh, by the way, i've been rambling ALL month - it's explained here.