The blue hour

When I first came here I couldn't walk and I didn't breathe the open air. My mother was pregnant with me.

When I drove down today i met the lovely vicar, had tea in the rectory and then I went down to the sea as the tide came in and as the sun was setting; walking and breathing.

I am sorry I neglected World IPF Week last week, and last year. I marked it two years ago. It seems terribly hard to keep up.
https://www.blf.org.uk/support-for-you/ipf/ipf-week?page=1
http://www.ipfworld.org/ipf-world-week.html
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=T8udEA_dx1s

Dusk, Burnham Overy Staithe - Kevin Crossley-Holland

The blue hour ends, this world
floats on a great stillness.

I only guess where marsh
finishes and sky begins,

each grows out of the other.
In the creek a slip

of water gleams. Rowboats
bob and swing above the mud,

the barnacled and broken
ribs of Old Stoker's boat.

A wedge of gulls rustles
overhead, and for a moment

the water notices them.
Such calm is some prelude.

Then the marsh it comes,
the sound as of an endless

train in a distant cutting,
the god working his way back,

butting and shunting,
reclaiming his territory.