Morning Turns the Page

Morning Turns the Page Night lies softly across the beach, as delicate as a black, silken scarf, while, underneath its dark veil, the sea is blue tissue paper with whitened finger tips wrapping an early morning present. Then night, like nature’s magician, magically removes it’s black disguise allowing early morning light to reveal its gift - an awakening beach washed by sea and sun. Suddenly a hurrying-scurrying train rushes up, sprinting between houses, swerving towards the beach, as if trying to catch an elusive wave. Next with a deeply drawn breath, its metal body ducks under a hump of bridge, rattling out the other side with a whistled scream. A giant, oak jumps back in surprise branches fumbling, acorns tumbling like golden coins being spent while blades of grass ripple and flex as they wave the chattering carriages on their way. Speedily the train scribbles its way forward reaching for the distance where a town awaits, a town where streets and cars are a working toy set. Meanwhile, at the seashore, waves calm themselves throwing final cups of cappuccino froth over coffee coloured grains of sand. The sea slows to a mutter, a white whisper, while the beach gradually relaxes and waits to be toasted by a warming sun. Later when the morning has turned the page into the afternoon, the day loses it chuckle as the seaside scene is met with a push of wind and a punch of a storm. Long departed the train continues to stretch its journey searching new scenery to entertain its passengers while still hugging the coast like a long, lost friend. Ian Souter