15th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
A vicious little wind, the grass is crunchy underfoot and the ground is frozen hard. The sea sighs and worries at the sand. Overhead, streamers and rolls of dark cloud cross from horizon to horizon as the weather front retreats away across the bay. A robin looks up meaningfully from the path. Mick, the Man who feeds the birds, says that the crow with the droopy wing was rejected by its parents who tried to kill it when a baby, so he always picks it out for special attention. The other crows have spotted this and now all limp about with droopy wings when he appears with food.
From 15th December 2020
The brilliant diamond light of Venus hangs in a navy blue sky. A great dark cloth damasked with threads of silver swirls across its fire in a conjuror’s disappearing illusion. Now you see it; now you don’t. The air where there is grass and trees is heady with that rich earthy smell that is called Petrichor. This word was only coined in 1964 but the phenomenon is recorded in a French Paper in 1891 "Sur l'Odeur propre de la Terre". In every bush there is a robin. A blackbird chortles. The only place where there is a dead stillness is beneath the pines where the carpet of damp needles soaks up all sound except for the distant susurration of the waves.
