I am always happy to get lost in the imagery spun by Fox. The added bonus here is water. I am a sea creature and to be gifted the lyrical beauty of the ocean makes me ecstatic. I love all the facets, even the ones that terrify, electrify and steal your breath away.
It was still like being caught in an avalanche, a bloody cosmic washing machine, tumbling them limb over limb into a coughing, spitting heap in the shale.
Or the alluring…
Wind song, lifting from the south as the sun touched the water. The soft slap of waves on a harbour wall or hull. And always, like bright silver stitches in the tapestry, seagull cries, lifting up the sky from the earth, creating wild free space for thought to take flight.
Or the partnership…
And if he had to be shot blindly into the dark, who better to trust with the task than Vic? Shell-shocked nutcase he might be, but centuries of wrestling the ocean ran in his blood.
This envelope rich and heavy enfolds Tom's story. As he struggles to claw back from the edge and emerge.
Balled up, clutching blindly at the dog’s scruff with one hand, he wept, unable to believe the depth, the age, of the wounds gaping wide in him.
For him the solitude of the West Country is necessary, more than home it is a refuge. How Flynn knocks him off his feet and drags him out of his self-imposed exile is not a happy tale, but one that makes you smile nonetheless. It makes you believe that even from dark and desolate places life can spring forth, reincarnate and flourish.