Heading back to Middle Beach, I clasped my I phone as if it were a precious amulet - I admired the rare colours of a shell - the tide was coming in -
Small clouds hid the sun from time to time - it was Sunday morning - a yacht was anchored just offshore, its sails furled, swinging on its anchor -
A lean sun tanned woman strode past us, on her way to the Naturists' beach - later in the year, naked men would haunt the dunes -
Canvas windbreaks guarded brave pensioners - jolly families played beach cricket - there were many anxious Golden Retrivers -
The winter storms had cut into the sand dunes - upon the new sharp ridge, I saw an artist, painting the vista before her -
I stood for some moments, watching her - what shapes, I wondered, was she painting? How did she see this world?
I thought of Hans, painting my portrait in his studio, the exciting smell of turps and joints -
Hans made the mundane world into a garden of spooky delights -
I remembered the first time I saw his painting of the Safeway Lovers -
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