The pebbles shift, the breakers call
I shed my coat, forget the fall,
and wade through grey to meet the swell
where winter waves and secrets dwell.

January’s needle-shock,
a key that turns the coldest lock;
my breath becomes a silver blade—
the first good choice I’ve made all day.

My blood remembers how to race,
the endorphins find their hiding place;
a rush behind the ribs, and then
the quiet hum of healing when

my pulse slows down to sea-time’s beat,
the shore a line where worries fleet.
High pressure, low, they both unspool
in Eastbourne’s salt and chlorophyll.

And when I climb the shingle drag,
steam rising from each shoulder-blade,
I’ve lost the weight of being me—
immune, alive, and wholly free.