Raised antennas. Old sentry stones, guarding against forgetfulness, cut off by chainlinks. Sun breaking out, threatening happiness.
Short journey, this is the harbour line, staccato with fishing boats, a scar through background fields. Crunch of industry never quite taking over the thorns of blackberries and elderflower, invited guests to keep merry souls alive. Not clear who looks after the other, machines, men, mulberry bushes. Crunch and clash and chug.
Small vessel pushes up the channel, under the swing bridge, towards its little home tucked away in the bank. Pushing into the future, against the tide.
For a few minutes I watch, the wake of the boat hussling, the pull of the tide in the opposite direction. Waves churn when the energies meet and thrum past each other. Moon against fuel. Rotation of engines against planetary revolution. Sucked into each other as a battle that can't be won, standing waves deepening, like a car revving against its own brake. Exchange of pulls, I wonder if each wave knows the other, perhaps as friends, kin but mirrored. Tussle and turmoil in mutual recognition.
Here, harbours, coming and going, meeting and marking. Openness.