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A Foreign Shore

A shore at the end of the winter, by the sea of a completely foreign country. It’s tones can be seen only by a searching eye. Mountains dropping into the water, covered in color full houses and evergreens. And silence. Silence that fills every organ in your body. The sound of the waves, coming and going. Someone is rowing far away in the distance. A soft blanket covering the small rocks. There is no sand in that beach, of a far away land. It’s not crowded. It’s filled with grey crisp air, and you can just sit quietly, or walk towards the riffs, that once drowned innocent boats.

 

On a far away beach, the wind tells stories that I never heard. About merchants that come from afar, about fishermen that watched the world pass them by and about powerful women that control the storms and the tides. Standing, in a swirl of scarves and dresses, leading the winds with the power of their hearts. If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can feel the generations of women – soft like feather clouds, steady like the rocks, and then disappearing again into the streams.

 

Almost at last moments of a cold season, on a shore that is strange to me. Missing the colorful chairs. And the sun. Sleepy restaurants, who so quickly forgot how to feed streams of tourists. Pill of their greyness, slowly. In bare feet, taking deep breaths of a soon to warm up air, I also try to move the wind. To keep the blanket of coldness just a bit longer, before the magic melts and fades away between the bathers and the boats’ noise.

Me, and a scarf, and a beach. Alone.

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