Liminal

Back of the beach, where the grass ends and the shore begins, there's an in-between zone which is neither one thing or t'other, an area of debris and decay, stick and stones, a few tenacious plants,  the corpse of a gull, the carapace of a plastic bottle. It can be hard to tell what is organic matter and what is not - and does it even matter?

It's not a dead zone though: lift any one thing and sand hoppers erupt like tiny champagne corks. There's a flower or two - in December! And the paint job on an upright stone (centre, and extra) suggests it's the regular perch of a small bird, a wagtail or a pipit perhaps, that uses the eminence to survey this liminal domain of betwixt and between.