Foam Hunters

The sea which lies before me as I write glows rather than sparkles in the bland May sunshine. With
the tide turning, it leans quietly against the land, almost unflecked by ripples or by foam. Near to the
horizon it is a luxurious purple, spotted with regular lines of emerald green. At the horizon it is indigo.
Near to the shore, where my view is framed by rising heaps of humpy yellow rock, there is a band of
lighter green, icy and pure, less radiant, opaque however, not transparent. We are in the north, and the
bright sunshine cannot penetrate the sea. Where the gentle water taps the rocks there is still a surface skin
of colour. The cloudless sky is very pale at the indigo horizon which it lightly pencils in with silver. Its blue
gains towards the zenith and vibrates there.
But the sky looks cold, even the sun looks cold.

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