Fishing for the soul

There is a small cove here where the shallow sea is calm, lapping gently about the many small jagged and smooth black boulders covering the seabed.

In the evenings when the sun is about to set and there is a rosy glow in the sky, there are those whose thoughts turn to food, to the fish that fill these calm darkening waters.

Their silhouettes stand out in dark relief against the deep rosy sky.

There is the kingfisher perched on a the peak of a low triangular rock, watching the water, its big beak like a long nose, patient as any fisherman.

There is the woman bent over the rocks on the narrow shingled beach, scraping and knocking at the shellfish clinging to them, the rhythmic tapping of her tool almost the only sound to be heard in the quiet evening.

A solitary seagull flutters about the tiny pools of clear water caught between rocks. A crow skims repeatedly over the water, hoping to feed on the remains of another's feast. Slithering among the rocks is a scorpion, black and menacing.

Immersed in the sea is a large fishing net, its floats bobbing on the water. Some hundred metres away three tiny, rickety-rackety boats are anchored.

All is quiet. There is an air of expectancy, everyone waiting to catch his dinner.

On an enormous flat rock high above the water, the figure of a woman can be seen sitting cross-legged, her back straight. She seems to be meditating, looking straight at the setting sun. You can tell she's not thinking of her meal that night. What she seems to be angling for is food for the soul.