At the brightest slip of dawn we cross the dunes, discovering a solitary man fishing, and seabirds, and a small child scooping sand, and broken shells.
“The tide is going to wash her away,” you say, wistful as we pass. Then, correcting – “Her castle, I mean.”
On our return, the man still, and wet lines on a shrinking beach. a diminished mound of sand greets us – edges washed, adorned with pebbles, shell fragments, a yellow bucket.
At the edge of the dune we pause in the fingers of cordgrass, a smattering of marsh dandelions.
You look back – then suddenly kneel, weeping.