f l i m

Dust in the air suspended/ Marks the place where a story ended./ Dust inbreathed was a house—/ The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,/ The death of hope and despair,/ This is the death of air.
T S Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets

We sat on the beach at Flim one evening, sharing fruit with a Bedu, waiting for the tide to trickle in. That hard beach is riddled with the holes of a million crustaceans, and as the sea moves in air starts bubbling out, going ‘pop-pop-pop’ and frothing. We squelched through, and sat in a fisherman’s boat as it began to bob in increasingly deep water.

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