~ "…ballerina you must have seen her dancing in the sand and now she's in me always with me tiny dancer in my hand…" ~
He watched the waves roll onto the shore, crashing against the gritty beach, withdrawing. The flowers he had laid so carefully in a cross pattern washed away, drifted out to the sea with the waves who retreated from their endless attack on the earth.
He threw more flowers in to the water, just to watch them fade into the distance as the waves pulled them out into the sea or they dragged the flowers underwater, just as they had dragged her.
Louth’s beaches were beautiful, if one loved sea cliffs. And those great rocky crags rising from the sea were beautiful, in a rugged, unrefined sort of way— they resonated with power and majesty
She had loved them. She said they sang to her, called her to them despite their inability to speak. She knew every little niche and cranny of that particular beach, knew every tide pool and stone.
And as he touched the same stones she had every day, he understood the beauty and the power, and he heard, in that primal sense, the calling of the Baltray Stones of Louth.