Brightest thing in sight, the number five sign beside silent tracks. I'm crossing the deserted platforms of the Half Way Station and it feels like it's too long a wait for something called Summer. I interrupt a blackbird from clearing out old leaves and crisp packets from beside the fence. He scares away and serenades the half light of mid afternoon from the wind-crippled hedge at the crazy golf. No-one plays today.
And the tide is busy turning to shore, it's voice taken away and back on itself. Mild enough to stroll. If I'd worn a heavier coat, I'd sit gazing out to sea, watching the profile of pink-edged lands rise from a pale horizon.
I walk towards home on a river of grey stones that didn't get a drink today, taking photos of blacks and slates and all the darks with the colours rinsed out. And the camera is turning moody, convincing me that the light is too low to pick out lakes of tarmac slick, focus in on sudden falls of bright, those narrow beams holding up the heaving sky.