14th March from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
There is a curtain of pale blue around the edge of the sky. The big, bulgy black and grey clouds bumble around the rest of the firmament occasionally allowing a sight of a few rags and tatters of sailors’ trousers and for the sun to shine warmly for a few seconds. The wind is still keen. The water in the bay looks calm with only ripples disturbing the surface but there is a big swell which heaps itself up as it nears the shoreline, steepling into tall waves that shiver for a moment and then crash down on the sand. Runners are out in force today and wear huge earphones which, from a distance, makes them look like Doctor Who’s Cybermen. Gold finches twitter together in one of the holm oaks and blue tits churr from the low pine branches.
From 14th March 2022
At this time of the evening, the long paths under the trees are strangely empty. The pools of light from the lamp posts seem to make them appear even emptier. Even my soft footsteps seem to echo. The air is fresh. The moon stutters out from behind the clouds and creates a silver halo on the eldrich shapes that surround it. A painting by Claude Joseph Vernet. A stream of keep-fitters with head torches run down the steps re-enacting an ancient ritual procession that could be part of Mussorgsky's Night on an Bare Mountain. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #spring #March #Vernet #Mussorgsky
From 14th March 2021
No mucking about today. No coyly peeping out from a thin veil of mist. No dramatic regal entrance through huge swags of purple clouds. A perfectly straightforward dawn with the sun sliding up, a clear golden yellow disc into a blue sky ready to get on with the days work of warming the denizens of the West Cliff. The cold wind still has something to say about that, though. The sea is calm with orderly rows of waves breaking sharply on the shore like a dowager duchess rapping the table before a meeting of the Mothers' Union. It is Mothering Sunday and the violets and primroses by the path remind me of wilted little posies in grubby little fists from long ago.
From 14th March 2012
The twisted pine stands black against the pearl pre-dawn fog that blankets the bay /////The twisted pines appears for a moment out of the clifftop fog like an old man with a sack of brass candlesticks over his shoulder before disappearing again chuckling to himself.
