At Winchelsea

Soozie and I were on the beach. I bent and picked up a stone, intending to throw it far out to sea, the way that men do. I tested the weight of it, imagined how it would feel to put the whole strength of my arm behind it, how I would watch it tumble, sending up a clattering, panicky clamour of gulls, then a white spray of foam. I would hear the small explosion as the plume of water rose, or the crack as it hit a just-hidden rock.

I thought then of how my arm would feel, the slight flare of bright pain from those unused muscles, the flex and stretch of my shoulder joint, the fizzing twang in my back where that sneaky almost-mended muscle lies in wait, ready for the day I forget I'm not young.

I held the stone for a moment more. I rubbed its surface with my thumb. I let it fall to the shingle.

"What's wrong?" Soozie asked.
"Nothing". I said.