Writer’s Notebook: From The Archives – Swansea Pipes

We used to walk along the pipes when the tide was out. The big concrete tube, careful now, wrap your toes around the curves, the sun beats down on your shoulders, feel the stones set into the concrete under your feet, you know, the shiny brown ones, sing I’m the king of the castle to your mum, you’re higher than her now, bigger, hold your arms out for balance, feel like a tightrope walker, a ballet dancer, make your way to the end, look out to the horizon, see a boat turning with the tide, a shadow where the sky meets sea, then hang your head over the edge, shout inside, shout below, shout your name, hear the echo down the throat of the sewage pipe and watch the orange brown water trickle out over the orange brown slippy slimy rocks and disappear into the sand like water toes first then knees, you’d sink so far, no one would be able to pull you out, so you walk slowly back and jump off just before the pipe disappears into the sand, onto dry sand, feel the sand in your toes, the squeak underneath, the buzzing of the sandflies, do they bite?


Writer’s Notebook – a series of posts releasing unfinished fragments into the world. Recognising the value in sharing.

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