Let’s suppose it is summer and a perfume of flower is evaporating in the air. Dry. Some regrets on the porch of the church and a tui claiming its freedom.
This is how one should live, in the reassurance of stones, their eternity arranged, according to their forms, each one having found its place (that is at least what I thought).
It was important for me to see a trace, to see your trace, in the mud of the descending tide, and I wished it would stay there, after the rising tide, eternally, honestly, naively.
Either submitting one’s feelings to the elements, or locking them up for an indefinite period of time, and risking losing the key or wanting to let them decompose in the dark.
By allowing time and rain to delve in the desire of beings, the stone will get its appearance back, its grain, its gray.