Where water meets land and day meets night they swim with their dogs. Little pools of ocean in rock, orphaned jewels from anonymous mass. Fringes of pellucid green brush against bodies as they explore the underwater world. Maps of moss and lichen in yellow, pink and purple. Beards of open barnacles and stray crabs on latitudinal shuffles into and out of apertures of rock.

They play at this level platform, this midpoint, terrain and marine. They survey and swim. They plunge their bodies. The repetition of a profane baptism where the swelling water is pierced by and carries the fleshy, breathing bodies.

They come to participate in its abundance. The loose mould that lubricates our minds with ill-formed memories of the warm matrix where we were carried. We are carried again.

I prepare my picnic, my rustic delights. I tear the nub from my loaf and inspect the catacombs inside, air fossils in a fluffy white explosion obscured by caramel crust. I dip the bread in oil, its newly broken surfaces mapped by a slick layer of mineral green. Immersed in my eating I survey the bodies of this outcrop. All gymnasts, all practitioners of bathing, of floating, of atmospheric transformation.

I watch the surface waiting for it to be disturbed by a particular body. A body will come from the water and walk towards me.