on a shingle spit i stand and stare.
stare at the emptiness of the land, the emptiness of the sky, the emptiness of the sea. stare at the dereliction left behind. stare at the rust on the horizon.
on a shingle spit i stand and stare, the beauty holds me, the ruins call me, the fences and telegraph poles sing to me; the wonder, the stillness, the bleak, bleak views, the constant wind, the instability underfoot, the instability underground. all pulls on me as i try to take it all in, try to comprehend, try to square the majesty and the pain of this odd place. i struggle to breath.
there was a war here once. cold and long, desolate and mind-boggling and tectonic. on a shingle spit i stand and stare and the war is palpable, concrete, here, here and here: buildings for testing bombs, half-buried in the shingle, half-open to the sky, ready to absorb the shock of another political blast.
on a shingle spit i stand and stare at the dereliction left behind.
for more on orford ness visit the national trust or wikipedia.