Out of the remembered past

Perched atop the dunes, I watched the light of a waxing crescent moon dance on dark waters. A salt laden breeze rushed through my ears and cooled my skin. With the fire flickering behind me I pondered existential things, thresholds between land and sea, life and death. Retiring to a dying fire and swag I read a chapter of Ross Gibson’s Memoryscopes. After underlining the phrase, “The country grows out of the remembered past”, I slept fitfully.