Here's a view from my doorstep. Wedding cake houses. Gulls drifting by.
I was just on the beach, strangely comforted by rain closing in, by the sky coming closer to earth. It began just as soon as I stepped onto stones, spotted only my hands and sleeves. Seemed to blow past the rest of me.
No dog walkers, no swimmers, no fishermen, no yachts, no gulls. Only a strange wrecked buoy with obscene graffiti in neat script. And distant in the gloom, lifeguards setting up their pitch. And I'm wondering if they have to sit out the weather when everyone else heads home fast. If they will dig in and continue gazing for a hint of the slightest something in the waves, fighting boredom and sleep and a chill that challenges their red and yellow storm suits.
I couldn't be in a better place for skywatching. The best skies for poetry seem to be more like this. Enough sky drama to keep you sitting out into dusk, and sometimes rare low tide sand to stroll before it's gone under again too soon.
And then, the hard slog home. Screes of stones and 89 stone steps.