It was there all around me, a coast of front row seats. I sat poised, pen in hand.
In the gaps between the wrack, a shoal of mackeral swam as one. No waves today for the surf boys, just an elephant skin of isis blue. Clear enough to watch the fish swim, clear enough to watch a comerant dive below.
A fly smacked me in the head like a sudden windscreen, unexpected, for both of us. He came off worse, flying into the cuckoo spit that covers the gorse at this time of year. Beyond the gorse the burr of new heather mottles the cliffs all the way to the cheese shaped headland. The cows stop their cudding to gaze out to sea, as a ship passes on the horizon. It stays away, it knows this piratical coastline. The cows resume and the sea inches further in to take Gul Rock a temporary prisoner.
My eye travels the coastline for an hour, pen poised, ready.
No good, no good at all.
Today the muse was too big.