Collecting Pebbles

The tide has turned while he works. Coarse weathered skin, a body burnt by the sun, he carefully selects stones to form a wide round base. Once that’s defined, he scoops stone upon fistful of stone, together with detritus collected on his wanderings along the prom; discarded chips, burgers, that sort of thing. Seagulls circle, land on the shingle, while he builds his mound.
And then he lays a path, stone following stone, flowing like a gentle swell across the shingle until the last stone is placed, water lapping around it.
Behind him, raucous squabbling gulls peck, dislodge, destroy, in their search for what he’s buried. And what of the commotion? What if it does attract attention, what would people see? Rowdy gulls bickering over nothing but a pile of pebbles.
Tomorrow he’ll  return with full carrier bags, gather scattered stones, begin to build again.