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You’re never quite sure what you’ll find when you amble along the beach at low tide. Last weekend, the northern end of Potato Point beach was deep in sea-weeds. So deep that sand had built up and the weed contained pools, drawing blue from the autumn sky. The seaweed floated, as it would under the ocean, and the watery gleam that is such a devil to photograph disappeared in the aquaeous light. For this luxuriance you would usually need a snorkel and underwater daring. All I needed was one eye watching where I put my foot, and the extra eye of the camera.

The seaweed entered my mind and wouldn’t leave. I lay in bed, between awake and asleep, trying to compose a description without using the letter “e”. Such bizarre disciplines only happen liminally.

Piling thick, from way down and far out, a wild uprooting. Mahogany, khaki, rust, tan;  dull mint, pistachio, amaranth, asparagus;  apricot, pumpkin, coral pink, burgundy, fading gold, glinting gold. Frondy, tubular, strappy; twists, coils, curls. Voluptuous in sand pools, floating, wafting, drifting.

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