The sea was very rough this morning, determinedly pulling and pushing at the sand and shingle. The wind had whipped the surf into large arcs of sea foam, which it tore off in pieces and sent rolling up the beach. These balls of foam rapidly diminished in size as they rushed along, chased by the dog. Her excitement was replaced with frustration as they disappeared before her eyes.
I empathise with the frustration, but I then I can console myself with the knowledge that these apparently solid things are largely illusion, and certainly transitory. What counts is constant. The sun comes up every day. And precious things remain, like those I see when I close my eyes.