
Between the solitary, candy-striped lighthouse and the white converted coastguard cottages, as the sun starts it’s daily descent in the western sky I see them exploring where the waves rhythmically, relentlessly, melt the sands, and wonder, had Shelley witnessed such a scene, would he have composed a wondrous poem to, “ The mudlark.”
Excellent how you managed to slip in Shelley
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Rather that than slipping in something nasty
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True. And Shells and Shores go together rather well
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