History by John Burnside (1955-) St Andrews: West Sands; September 2001 Today as we flew the kites - the sand spinning off in ribbons along the beach and that gasoline smell from Leuchars gusting across the golf links; the tide far out and quail-grey in the distance; people jogging, or stopping to watch as the war planes cambered and turned in the morning light – today - with the news in my mind, and the muffled dread of what may come – I knelt down in the sand with Lucas gathering shells and pebbles finding evidence of life in all this driftwork: snail shells; shreds of razorfish; smudges of weed and flesh on tideworn stone. At times I think what makes us who we are is neither kinship nor our given states but something lost between the world we own and what we dream about behind the names on days like this our lines raised in the wind our bodies fixed and anchored to the shore and though we are confined by property what tethers us to gravity and light has most to do with distance and the shapes we find in water reading from the book of silt and tides: the rose or petrol blue of jellyfish and sea anemone combining with a child's first nakedness. Sometimes I am dizzy with the fear of losing everything - the sea, the sky, all living creatures, forests, estuaries: we trade so much to know the virtual we scarcely register the drift and tug of other bodies scarcely apprehend the moment as it happens: shifts of light and weather and the quiet, local forms of history: the fish lodged in the tide beyond the sands; the long insomnia of ornamental carp in public parks captive and bright and hung in their own slow-burning transitive gold; jamjars of spawn and sticklebacks or goldfish carried home from fairgrounds to the hum of radio; but this is the problem: how to be alive in all this gazed-upon and cherished world and do no harm a toddler on a beach sifting wood and dried weed from the sand and puzzled by the pattern on a shell his parents on the dune slacks with a kite plugged into the sky all nerve and line: patient; afraid; but still, through everything attentive to the irredeemable.

Today as we flew kites - the sand swirling in ribbons along the beach and the gasoline smell from Leuchars blowing over the golf course; with the tide far out and grey in the distance; people jogging, or stopping to watch as the war planes turned in the morning light – today - with the news on my mind, and the quiet fear of what might come – I knelt down in the sand with Lucas collecting shells and pebbles finding signs of life in all this driftwork: snail shells; pieces of razorfish; marks of seaweed and flesh on worn stones. Sometimes I think what defines us is not family or our given roles but something lost between the world we have and what we dream of behind the names on days like this our lines raised in the wind our bodies fixed to the shore and though we are limited by ownership what connects us to gravity and light is mostly about distance and the shapes we find in water reading from the book of silt and tides: the pink or blue of jellyfish and sea anemone mixing with a child's first nakedness. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with fear of losing everything - the sea, the sky, all living things, forests, estuaries: we give up so much to understand the virtual we barely notice the drift and pull of other bodies barely understand the moment as it happens: changes of light and weather and the quiet, local forms of history: the fish caught in the tide beyond the sands; the long sleeplessness of ornamental carp in public parks captive and bright and hanging in their own slow-burning transient gold; jars of spawn and sticklebacks or goldfish taken home from fairs to the sound of radio; but this is the problem: how to be alive in all this observed and cherished world and do no harm a toddler on a beach sorting wood and dried weed from the sand and puzzled by the pattern on a shell his parents on the dunes with a kite connected to the sky all nerve and line: patient; afraid; but still, through everything attentive to the irredeemable.