Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Through the hourglass it filters, grains of our life slipping by in fine speckled moments, the pot boiling on the stove, our time cooking away, egg shells rattling and clanging on the teflon bottom of a pot, an electric element glowing orange hot, bubbles forming and bursting, like our dreams and ideals.

Shoes off, walking along a beach near sunset, shadows grow long and the light takes on an orange hue, our eyes adjust but the camera is faithful, pictures later have a wash of orange through them. Sand between toes, dry and wet. Wet where we walk along the border between sea and land the interface, the ever changing picture where the dampness is sucked like a sponge into fine particles and golden grains, tiny salt and pepper grains. On the dry side the sand squeaks as we leave the beach in pliant trainers.

Sandcastles, plastic buckets and shovels, taking the half wet sand and packing it into a bucket, it’s rough sand , Atlantic sand. The smell of kelp the call of gulls in the air, the wash of the  tide on the beach, ah childhood, no need to think about anything then, just act , be , do. Pack those grains down and then invert. The round turret comes out close to perfect a few chips have drifted off, easily re-packed with fresh sand. Three more and the castle outline takes place. Gather together more half wet sand, digging down deep below the surface for solutions, like we need to do with ourselves sometimes, deeper than the surface thoughts. Down underneath are the grains of our memory, the particles of our being, we man the gates of our defences and build our own castle walls to survive within, but maybe that’s just my castle. Now the walls form on this one, they have to be thick without the packing of the bucket, big thick icing walls, that icing you get on a Boston bun. Could be time for some rock candy……