All week, in this rented house, sea spray and whispers of wind weave through the eucalypts, like a Sondheim melody. Through the pewter leaves the sea glimpsed from the wooden deck is, at times, teal silk. Other days it is grey.
Longing stirs like waves about to break on the shore and sometimes they lift and swell like hope, as they pound the sand. From this wooden deck far above the beach, the sand has lost its power to cling and irritate like problems unresolved.
Other times the waves rise and crest, only to evaporate, the way dreams do upon waking. But I know, when I go home, the sequin of sea spray will linger on my eyelids, sleek and beguiling as a promise.