Spitting distance

Rippled waters lap sleeping boats in early evening lullaby; as the tide trickles through the creek, slowly raising hulls from muddied beds.

 Plovers come to peck at worms wetly burrowed in brackish mud; daintily balancing, backs to the breeze, intent upon their feast.
A curlew calls, hidden between raised banks of scrub; its voice carried on the wind so we who hear cannot tell wherein it truly lies.

We cross the wooden bridge, pausing to watch the water carried over stones; and a crab, lured to baited line, wrestling with a proffered snack.

Then up onto the spit, over pebbles smoothed by countless tides, to stare out towards the horizon.

We walk towards the castle; the buffeting wind and stones slipping beneath heavy feet, making headway slow....

until, of one accord we turn and slip slide our way down the shifting slope and back along the creek side path, towards the ice-cream van and the promise of sweet treats for weary walkers .