The cliffs went tumbling, making way for water and its irresistible surge that even time couldn’t stop. The rocks rumbled. One person dead.
And by the greyest of all the rivers the gothic palace began to crumble, its stone so soft you could brush it away with a fingertip, polishing it into nothing.
On our little beach the hard pebbles of the shore are covered with slippery weed. It’s difficult to walk. The buzzards lope above. The sky is ever so blue.
Where do we go to when all the signs say move, move…?