Earlier there had been a man, an old man, whose house stood right on the beach. He had a little hedge below the window and flowerbeds in front, on either side of the door, little pink pansies growing in them. And in the morning the waves would wash up round the flowers and slap at the stoop, and he looked out in his robe and slippers, sighing.
But wouldn't the flowers be poisoned, with so much salt left in the soil all the time? The sea breathes harshness, its wind crops the trees for miles inland, so that not only the land but the sky itself slopes down toward the water. It is mighty. Soon, the old man thinks, it will rise over my doorstep, and we will live together, I and the sea, it will cover my kitchen floor and fill my basement forever. I built this house myself on a little hill, so long ago now.
The sea is power unshaped, inexorable, rising twice a day, a little higher every time, until we are all swallowed up. The old man knows this. He also knows he comes from the sea. He knows the time of every high tide. And if the sea will not be stayed from rising on time, and the old man always knows the time, then who rules over whom?
Christine, Dreaming