Like coleopterid carapaces, these coracles, near numberless.
. . . And at high tide turning they scurry and swarm the sand, hauling the hulls from Ocean, as ants carry leaves larger than they into the subterranean farm-factories. There the leaves will be inoculated with mould which will decompose the cellulose and nourish the numerous populace of the Hill. And all this, and hospitals too, and true community care which continues even for those who care not nor can.
We haven't quite got there yet, let's hope we do.
We haven't quite got there yet, let's hope we do.
After the landings, the beachcrawl, the dark aspect of eyes gazing seaward from under furrowed brow. Sharply the nostrils open, inhaling the spume, savoring its saltiness, breathing in deeply and hoping no-one hears the sigh let slip . . .
