She supposed it was time to run across the beach again and she was right.

She moved across in juddering frames in temperament with the kitchen chair, her clothes arranged, red top, black waistcoat and Mary Janes. The sand flies out, a response to her presence as the restaurant table slides in. White ceramic bowl of chicken salad and she runs.

Feet shoving sediment, the bench in Brueton park and the fresh feel of her new parka. Its white chord swinging from the opening to the hood, bouncing off her shoulders like her hair.

Her parent’s shelves, the cacophony of ornaments and as she thumped the sand with her size 4 feet, her Mum’s mantlepiece clock chimed lateness. 

There was a bag of shells somewhere, thin nylon netting and if she could find them, then hold a dogwinkle to her ear, she’d hear herself, taste the bone china of the teacup that she sipped from. She’d feel the silken edge of her parent’s fleur-de-lys settee as she charged, hell for leather, beating the sand with the smallness of her feet.

The March sun turned to April making everything alright as salt air kissed her skin and her trainers left imprints, the proof that she was there.

She never rode the Camel trail. She looked out of the window and fingered the dust around the edge of someone else’s ornaments .

And later she’d hold the sedimentary slate in her hand for umpteenth time. Sand turned to dust, clocks with hands that held hers as she climbed up to the cafe overlooking the bay. Tangled hair. Strands. Objet d’art.

Smooth cool rims, gold leaf teacup and arms stretched wide as she ran. The rock banging her thigh, safe, heavy in pocket as she thundered across the beach.