Low Tide.

I'd walked out to the point and the tide was still dropping, so I decided to go on around the corner.

I navigated between the mussel beds, not wanting to crush the shells and dodging the little waves that were keen to fill my boots with the winters chill.

The cliffs were key holed with small bays, revealed by the low water, each with a crescent of treasure.

Wood, naturally, and pieces of boat, plastic, glass, weed, live creatures feasting upon the dead.

I slipped on a large flat rock, newly exposed and greasy, I fell hard, hard enough to stun and wind and worse.

I was a long way around and my leg wouldn't cooperate and I realised how solitude can turn to isolation in the time between heartbeats.

It wasn't until I was home that I noticed my watch was missing, the steel bracelet weak against the forces of gravity and stone.

That was a good watch, old and scratched but it kept precise time, the second hand would reach the hour in time with the pips.

And I still look for it when we get around the corner among the mussel beds.