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A narrow and narrowing bar this time. Sea’s grabbed it as a harvest neck – this and strong fingers are tightening round. An hundred minutes till high tide. Almost all sand except southward where green wrack smells as fallen, dead, scattered from the living order. Down by The Cove edge, grey stones piled: skulls and bones pushed down by waves’ crush North, input increased incrementally till it crosses over. What had been intact is now damp and breached.