Out Of Reach

I sit on my mobility scooter
on Traeth Gele,

watching waves roll in
from Liverpool Bay.

The wind finds its rhythm—
steady, unseen—
turning blades on the horizon,
white giants
harvesting what can’t be held.

Nature,
translated into energy.

I sit there,
watching,
listening,

as words come flying out of my mouth—
too fast, too many—
scattering like spray.

I reach for them,
try to catch each one,
but they slip through—

and I can’t hold them all.

My words tumble and crash
like waves against the shore.

They break on rocks I didn’t choose,
scatter into pieces I try to gather
with hands that don’t always do
what I ask of them.

I collect what I can—
fragments, edges, almosts—
but the picture never comes together
the way people expect.

There are always pieces missing.
Not lost.
Just… out of reach.

So I use what’s there—

tools that help me reach a little further,
gather what slips past my grasp,
shape what I’ve always meant to say.

Not to replace my voice,
but to reveal it.

Because the words are still mine—
every thought, every feeling, every truth—
just carried a different way
to the page.

Like wind
through blades
becoming something you can use.

And still, I build something.
Not perfect.
Not complete.

But mine.