Dreaming of the seaside

It might have been the sound of wind in the treetops that recently evoked this vivid recollection of the seaside.

Every time I lie, face-down on a sandy beach I return to the same place — a tiny place bounded by my own face and folded arms; a cool, sheltered and shady den from where, behind half-closed eyes, I watch the breeze stirring little flurries of sand in the light filtering in from the sunny beach. 

The hairs on my forearms bristle with quiet energy; I smell salt on my skin.

As if from deep within a seashell, I hear the rhythmic breathing of the sea as it touches the shore. The shouts of excited children are all mingled with the waves.