Sunday, 24 January 2010

Blacks turned into ink

Another grey sky. Bleak on the beach. Like the light never woke up that morning.

The Palace Pier was shouting in bursts of orange lights, ready for business, pulsing away the minutes in the last scarves of mist. Synchro disco. Boom bass on the breeze wave if I turned my head that way.

The wreck of the West Pier held onto a dark solitude, stark against the heavy eyed sky. Cormorants lined the jetty, watchful of the one circling gull beneath their black perch. And I was lost in the dancing calligraphy of shadows swaying on the fall away of the tide.

The blacks turned into ink in a low slant of sun.