solway lass

The salt that the wind brings with it clings to everything it brushes past, as is the way with any wind that blows in from the sea. 

I can feel it on my face, on my clothes. 

My linen shirt has that sticky feeling of salt dampness inside and out — even though there’s not a slick of damp anywhere on it: it's been hanging to dry in my cabin for the past three days. 

The salt over my face is like a layer of moisturiser that hasn’t quite soaked in.

It makes my skin feel almost grimey. Like I haven’t had a proper wash in days. 

The salt is in my hair, stiffening every strand

The salt, in my eyes, and covering my hands, making them feel as dry as if I had coated them in cement mix.

Salt. There’s salt everywhere. In my mouth, under my fingernails. 

And still the wind is constant, a never ending pressure on every side of my body. There is no escape, as it’s infects everything it lays its sticky tendrils on.

It’s invigorating. As if the world itself is shouting at me, every second of every day, telling me secrets who’s meanings tickle, just outside of my consciousness.