Low Tide

At lunchtime I take the steep walk from my studio towards the River Avon. At the bottom of a narrow alleyway, the sweet smell of detergent lifts from a nearby front garden where tiny baby clothes dry in the sunshine.

At the sea wall, a small black plaque fixed to the large grey stones commemorates its construction. The walls sit proud and stout, protecting the entire village from the tidal Avon. Pill, being so close to the funnelled mouth of the treacherous River Severn, has a knowing seriousness about it, especially on seemingly calm days like today.

At low tide, sodden mud banks begin to crack in the warm sun. Black-headed gulls squawk loudly and agitate the silt around their dull-red feet, then flit around, presumably looking for lunch or other gulls.

Glossy curls of seaweed lie caught and tangled together, strewn across the slowly drying bank. Two mallards, heads tucked neatly beneath their wings, sleep peacefully nestled within the baskets of seaweed.

Nature like this still bears the grubby smear of human fingerprints. Sunken into the silt are shopping trolleys. Each one full of mud and completely immovable. Metal ribcages pumped full of tar and treacle. You would need machinery to remove these blemishes, and even then it would be arduous. They might be here forever. Gouges in nature's perfect snooker table.