Friday, 3 April 2009


Happy in the solitude of grey mediocre, hands in my pockets, strolling on a low tide beach sucked free of colour by a shawl of mist. Happy it has been sucked free of people by the hint of rain that will not come today. The stones have been swept back, neat, to leave patches of gritty sand. It makes an erratic wave shape to follow back towards home. My feet enjoy walking in a silent luxury rare on this shore.

Happy in the unremarkable of this monochrome, I sit down below the steepest banks of cliff carve, not quite warm enough, but not quite cold, count only three silhouette stick people and the scribble of a small running dog on the whole beach. A woman in a red jacket stands out by the waves alone, the only vertical. The red is a shot to the eye against the horizontals of wave white, the pale sand, the dark mottled carpet of stones, the blank canvas of mist matt.

Happy to hear the waves without the roar and hum of city racing towards the weekend, the mist is making this part of town serene between the breaths of the breakers that rise sudden and pause transparent, before their falling. That glassy jewel light in the final arching curve of surrender cuts into the crisp sound of collapse, like neat words that never finish in the letter s.