This feeling: lying on the surface of frozen waters (always cold, like the sweet ice dripping off my spoon into my tongue), face up, palms out, eyes filled with sky the same color as the depths that whisper in my ears: come back Airah, come home. My skin sizzles with ultraviolet rays. I spray it with protection but it smells rotten and is swallowed. Sand scorching through bare toes. Clear waters, shallow for only a few meters but miss a step and it runs deep. A smooth rock with rings for patterns, thrown back into the sea, put into my pocket but swept away by small, calm waves. Two times, I tried. But two times it slips away, joining the others: the see through, the flat, the iridescent. It knows where it belongs but what about me? I forget the farther I am from the sea. But when I am it, when its atoms latch on to my limbs like magnet, it calls me. Pulls me. And whispers like a lover gasping for air as he chokes on his own sins: Come back to me.
Heydon is an isolated village in the large eastern county of Norfolk, England; one crammed with picturesque houses, charming cottages, a late mediaeval church and the Elizabethan Heydon Hall, b. 1582. The old-fashioned authenticity of the town remains undisturbed, as no new buildings have been added here since
the Vicar and his girlfriend fell into the Queen Victoria commemorative well was built in 1887.
Thanks to Pete Sturman on flickr for introducing me to this place! Have a look at his photostream, it’s lovely.
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