Spring tides, waves spilling quiet. Heat holding its breath. Seed heads bursting. Sweet grass scythed, hay made. Time drifts. Minutes empty, fall as passing waves. Breath & body synchronise. Sea is a gift for this. Body slows, arms cease drawing liquid, the end of a scattering breath. So thoughts are not thoughts. Just crystalline fissures of a blinking graze of life. My breath. Spills quiet, runs empty. Empties, fills. A clear run of water, draining its own blue sky. Above, just blue, empty sky, a glistening arc of sun. So you know life is done, and then starts beautiful fresh over, with each blinking breath. Here, time runs differently off shore. In the islands, we live quite invisible, as horizon spins past, so fast slow as a day or a moon. Time is measured by a wilder, harsher forgiving cut. Salt rushing up to meet jagged rock ledge. Ancient limestone, anachronism of a molten crust as ferries drift, totems of another faster world. Blink. Water laps a salt skin. Temperatures glisten cold. Sea is of shedding expectations, peeling back the known. Deeper water is always pristine at the surface. A darkening whorl and sensed, intuited, sound. Cut through & find yourself again, sharp as a gull's keening. Turn. Eyes fall into a softer catch, sea's latch where water opens, a porous hydrogen sense. Seal's eyes, briny, a shell's breath. So you know time has no meaning. A wave curling, unfurling. A cadence of light & sound. And seems to me, Sea has no talk of time or markers. Boundaries, inhibitions, all of it washed away. Sea helps you See. This, and so much other. So that all you hold precious, that by its holding can hold you in check, rushes blue beautiful empty away. Off shore, here, no separation. As sea drenches heart, & salt drenches skin. On a wild sung rock of an island. The Isle of Lios Mor.