Walking along the beach at Durdle Door

Whenever I walk along the beach at Durdle Door, I feel that I am entering a borderland - I walk along the tract of sand or shingle which falls subject to the advancing or retreating waves - within this edgeland of wet sand, or of gleaming pebbles, I look out for shells, driftwood or hanks of kelp -

My mind is full of the idea of departure, of boats setting out for the horizon - I think of mariners, dragging their skiffs down to the sea's edge - I look up at the gulls above me, swaggering like bravos in the turbulent air - I think of all the leave-takings made here, in this zone of foam and spray -

The cliffs are a white wall of chalk behind me - there are small caves at their base, just above the coarse sand - high above, the grass of the cliff tops billows in the salty wind -

The sea surges through the arch - boys tombstone from there in the summer, their thin brown bodies plunging deep below the waves -

Anne and Maire once swam out, through the arch - I followed - the sea was clear and cold, the beach shelving steeply away, so that you were very soon out of your depth -

Back upon the warm pebbles, we dried ourselves with rough towels, felt the sun upon our skin - felt ourselves given only to the moment -

The waves hissed upon the shingle - yachts sailed by with bright sails -