Thursday, 10 May 2012


That journey home from work, the evening stretching out that way you long for and have almost forgotten. As the bus swings down the hill past the station and joins a juddering queue of traffic, you catch a glimpse of the Downs that encircle the town, see a field of rape like a fluorescence against the purple slate of retreating storms, follow threads of hedgerows like rivers that run up and over hills.

It's a slow ride from here, start stop. Mainly stop. The sky seems to lift from the top floors of skyscrapers in a fast film sequence, reveals the top of the big wheel like a magician's scarf ta-daaa across a hint of optimistic blue.

The roundabout lets you lurch out of the traffic and it's foot down along the seafront and not sure if you see it or hear it first, it makes your day, low tide, far out, the perigee moon dragging the waves into a slow hush.

And you forget the hunger that has leaned on you for the last two hours. Once off the bus, you're running home, casting off your work, the jacket, the smartness that held your day. Old shoes, warm layers. Out. Grab the camera. Out. Out. Out. You make yourself look both ways before you chance the road.

And the mist is on the run with the tide, heading towards a white space where the sea and sky have fallen, only the wind brush of mackerel shallows between you and there. No-one else in sight.

That old jetty stands like a small crowd at the edge of the world. They wait as you walk towards them across dulled mirror sand, every sunrise shell flung open, pecked clean.

And once you gave in and slowed down, you saw those last uprights as sculpture against the light, felt the moment when the mud stirred, heard the sound flip back this way, felt the dampness on you cheeks, watched the mist turn back to shore.