The given words at this week’s The Sunday Whirl are ripe shore face itself birth down far sprout heart lines drizzle and silhouette. I have used all but one.
The shore is hers alone. A fine drizzle dilutes the tears that stream down her ashen cheeks. Wandering along the water’s edge, she watches as the foaming ocean flows in then webs away leaving lines in the sand. She stoops to trace a heart with her finger and gazes forlornly as it washes away, as was hers.
Atop the cliff, he sits staring down at the foaming waves as they crash over the boulders far below. Beside him, a single golden flower sprouts from the sodden grass stubbornly refusing to submit itself to the wind that tries to tear it away. Should he surrender to the emotions that are drawing him closer to the edge?
She falls to her knees, the wretchedness too much to bear. Looking up into the grey sky, she begs for something unseen to rescue her from her distress. Her eyes are drawn to the rock face and the silhouette of a forlorn soul on the verge of taking his final fateful journey.
In the distance, he sees a figure slumped in the shallow water. He knows it is she. She knows it’s him.
And now they sit facing each other, heads bowed, hands linked. From near-death came rebirth; a realisation that it was meant to be, yet so nearly sacrificed.