Hush now.

Admit yourself to the slowness of waking on a Sunday. Stretching out, felling your toes playfully fan and curl, caressing the underside of a light, white, sheet of clean cotton.

Your senses peacefully segue, unhurriedly opening the sluice gates of your consciousness. A moment to savor, an inner peace, calm and secure knowing you’re safe and secluded.

Listen, allow your ears tune to the sound of the Ocean, that vast body of blue-green open water, hear her rhythm calling you from beyond the thin timbers of these wooden walls, their sun-bleached driftwood cladding the timber frame of your cabin.

Recalling the tranquility of last night, how the water was warm, soft and gentle, as you’d waded through it. A burnt crimson sunset bruising behind you, creating a gold leaf filigree, woven and pressed into the shattered eggshell of a powder blue canvas sky.

You sense the morning air is already warm, the sun risen and returning, a scented sirocco breeze, billowing the curtains and bringing bliss.

Your bedroom seems to sigh with the caressing breath of the Ocean outside, scented with white lilies, sea salt and occasional quaffs of Coco Chanel.

Lightly licking your lips, you taste her salty kiss, a remnant from last night, recalling the sunset and the open blaze of your fire-pit.

Those beautiful smudges of coral, lavender and turquoise, and those fiery orange embers, swirling up into the night sky, bursting from the driftwood, blending together to create a sight so astounding it swept away all your worries.

You stretch and groan, feeling your inner youth awakening within your bones, their marrow softening, serenaded by the warmth of the morning and the soundtrack of the lapping waves.

An astrology of stars connect you intimately to the rhythm of these tides, and while your inner child may very well wander, lost in ancient woodland, her Bayham heart is forever tethered to the moon, always sensing the Ocean, claiming the fringes of the land, creeping over broken seashells, and all too often stealing them.

Coffee. The thought comes to mind with rude need and impatience. You slip your long legs out of your bed, dangling them over the side, feeling your feet gently pressing down into the bare wood of the timber floor, greeting a grit of loose dried sand pressing beneath your sole as you prepare to stand.

A lilting breeze sweeps against the white drape of your light curtains, you watch how they dance and billow, possessed with a majesty and romance all of their own, and inviting your spirits to lift as light as theirs.

Slipping into a luxurious gown, one left hanging, full length, regal, now grown restless, sweeping open and untied, effortlessly shrouding you in silk, with seams split and hems edged in heavenly fine lace.

Confidently you approach the sound of the Ocean, throwing open the billowing curtains and the sun bleached timber shutters, allowing the full unfiltered beauty of the view to overwhelm you.

Cerulean blue, crystal clear, the Ocean seems at peace, as mirrored still as any millpond, her surface offering only a placid ripple, just enough to break the morning sunlight into a mosaic of reflected glitter.

Out a ways, your keen eye catches sight of an anchored yacht, a lone visitor, sat still with her white mainsail hung like a child’s stocking on the eve of Christmas, empty and waiting to be filled, but a cloudless empty sky suggests no wind will fill her today.

Coffee. Your impatient mind summoned again by the call for caffeine. You pull yourself away from the beauty of your back-garden-beach-front and pad through the cabin to fill the kettle.