The river rushes headlong down the mountain. When it hits the plain it starts to wonder. By the time it nears the coast it is meandering in all directions, searching blindly for an outlet to the sea. The pounding surf has built a bulwark of sand that blocks the way. The river turns in on its self, gathering in eddies and pools and billabongs, swamps, marshes, wetlands, bog. The river rises, breaches the wall and rushes out into the open sea. The tide floods in. The river and the sea dancing around each other in arabesques and curlicues.
Above it all, perched on a rock, sits the artist, with a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand.
Ben Laycock
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