Matthew G. Rees
Gull wing-grey sky, tide sucked lower than his good eye can see, Cock Davies rides his tractor down the slip. Hair wild as windswept saltmarsh, face an arrowhead of fierce-cut flint, his calloused hands clench the wheel of his old, phutting Fordson like crab claws. Silurian charioteer of the sort who fought the Romans. All that’s lacking is the warpaint, as he lands on the sands of the estuary.
And his mood – jounce and rattle of his tow-hooked trailer behind him, black soot clouds storming from his tractor’s steepling pipe –is war-like.
Steamrollering the shells of the stran