The Salt on the Tongue
The morning air in Zeeland tastes of cold iron and wet sand. It is a sharp, metallic bite that settles at the back of the throat, waking the lungs before the eyes have even dared to open. I remember the feeling of walking barefoot on a beach just as the tide retreats; the mud is thick and cool, squelching between my toes like heavy velvet. There is a specific silence to that hour, a hum that vibrates against the skin, not heard by the ears but felt in the marrow of the bones. It is the sensation of being entirely small, of having the damp wind scrub away the layers of yesterday until only the raw, shivering present remains. We carry these landscapes in our joints, the ache of the damp and the sudden, golden heat of a sun that promises to thaw the frost. Does the earth remember the weight of our footsteps long after we have retreated to the warmth of our beds?
Rob van der Waal has captured this exact stillness in his image titled Morning Light. The way the glow touches the ground feels like the first breath of a new day against bare skin. Can you feel the chill of the dew beneath your own feet?
