We went to West Beach on Saturday. The sea was the colour of prune juice. An ancient sea. A Mediterranean wine dark sea. The waves lifted and stretched before crashing. That was the moment you could see the prune juice and oxidized apple, with brownish white foam on the top.
The foam cascaded from the wavetops in bubbles that fetched up in pink scummy heaps mixed with seaweed and shivered in the wind.
That was Saturday.
On Sunday we went to Seacliff. We didn't go down on the sand. I had my camera and thought I'd take photos of flowers in the sandhills, and call them Flowers of the Coast. Some of the flowers were conventional flowers. Gazanias, portulacas, and stocks.
Then there were the unconventional flowers. The cat's head, the talking fish, the rusty solar pole and the little girl in the pink skirt. I shall elaborate tomorrow.
No, I have space here. I shall do the cat.
The Cat's Head Flower. This was......
No. I won't. It's getting bitty. It will be better if I do it tomorrow.
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