I was there all by myself. It’s far enough out that there are no sounds of cars driving anywhere, no sound of industry. There’s no hum of electricity and no din of machinery. There are no stores and no houses and no people. It’s just the rocks and the ocean.
I sat down for a while and did nothing. It’s very quiet here except for the surf that comes in relentlessly against the shore, but that’s a good sound. Sometimes a large wave will hit and draw my attention, but by the time I look, it has vanished. But I trust that it was there.
|Waiting for the bells.|
Far off in the distance--somewhere--is the sound of bells. I don’t know where they come from because the water plays tricks on my ears and the sound is wafted about here and there. There’s no way of knowing the origin. It’s a distant sound, a low clanking or a deep gong. Every so often, the sound of a large chain rubbing against itself can be heard. Again, I don’t know where the sounds are coming from. Certainly, there’s nothing here to see. Except for the ocean.
It can’t be described as anything other than “ghostly.” I often wonder about that. About the ghosts who must inhabit these shores. The bells I hear are the old bells, not the new-fangled horns or sirens. They’re the old bells from a long time ago. You can’t hear them right away. You have to be sitting for a long time. But they always come, clank clanking in the background, competing with the gulls.
And that’s all there is, really. Sometimes, that’s all there is.