Madre del agua. Garikoitz Cuevas

Mother of the water, sweet.

This morning the tide was good for walking, with a high coefficient, over one hundred.

I went down to the beach and headed toward the Corral de Merlín in La Jara; under these conditions, you can almost reach the center of the hemicycle of stones and shells through which the corral fills and empties with the rhythm of the tides.

I brought reading material:

CANCIÓN 4º

O bosques, yespesuras
plantados porlamano delamado,
ó prado de verduras,
de flores es maltado
dezid sipor vosotros ha passado. 

I didn’t see it coming.

The westerly wind beat against the soft crests of the waves, shaping salt foam, nothing out of the ordinary; though this time I noticed something different. I moved closer to look beneath the foam and, with a certain calmness, the tide began to carry words to the shore of the stones:

trafficked, seeking peace, transposition of lividity, the great silence, fado of St. Teresa.

CANCIÓN 18º

Allí me dio supecho
Allí me enseñó sciencia muy sabrosa
y yoledi de hecho Ami, sin dexar cosas; alli le prometi de ser su esposa.

Free will, pact with God, the sound of clouds, O tempo não espera ninguém, Gloria Fuertes visits the marshland, tear duct sleep hygiene…

The tide turned, I gathered the words, closed Cántico Espiritual y Poesías by San Juan de la Cruz, and walked back crunching shells on my way to the biopsy puncture.

Mother of the water is sweet.