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This morning I walked south, across the headland, to see whether Tarougra Lake (if that's its name – I've heard it called Brush and Brou as well) had opened in the wild weather. My sitting place beside the lake where I used to watch blue wrens in the days when I took my chair and recorder on my walks, was muddy, not grassed, and a lot of small trees were dead. I squelched my way along the lake's rim towards the ocean, ankle-deep in mud if I wasn't careful, through the artistry of the sea's leavings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once I'd finished squelching and arrived on firm sand, I found less maritime leavings: sticks, twigs, a long tree trunk.

 

 

 

Where the lake entered the sea, there was the solidity of rocky outcrops where once a vast sandbar stretched.

Before the wild weather.