15th February from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Crisp dawn with a little mist around the horizon. A soft sea. The sun hasn’t reached full strength yet and it still feels cold. Greenfinches are in full wheezy song from the gorse bushes and little parties of them flit along the cliff. Suddenly our resident woodpigeons are back, spread out on the dewy grass. The winter town pigeons seem to have disappeared just as quickly. As the sun gets going, its rays pick out a motor scooter apparently dozing after a hard night out among the trees. It has a Polish number plate. I hope its owner is safe.
From 15th February 2022
The sort of day that should feel bleak and miserable. The rain is slanting in across the bay being driven by a sharp, unforgiving wind. But we are far enough into the year for the sun to have climbed higher in the sky at noon and the clouds shine with a cheerful luminosity, polishing the paths with a silver sheen. Dry white leaves from the ilex trees race and rattle along under the swaying pines. The crows wander about the short grass while one of their number keeps a sharp lookout. A greenfinch wheezes and a gull hangs motionless on the gale. #Bournemouth #westcliffgreen #springisonitsway #February
From 15th February 2021
It's not cold and it's no longer raining but it's still a grey, gluey sort of day as if a celestial child has spilt cold porage all over it. The surf is busy and broken but already there is a line of Volkswagen Transporters with blacked out windows. These are the preferred transport for surfers .One girl is already on her way home, her board lodged over the rear seats of her little Toyota. Her hair hangs in damp ringlets and her cheeks glow pink. A jogger passes me, his massive muscled legs straining against his tight jogging pants. His body is a temple supported on pillars of marble. I have never thought of my body as a temple; more an abandoned Non-conformist chapel of the sort you see clinging to the side of every Welsh valley. The floorboards creak and there is a musty smell from the pile of decaying, long unopened hymnbooks at the back. There is the constant drip of rainwater where the grey slates have become dislodged.
From 15th February 2020
The sea is a tangled boiling mess of white right out past the pier. The ragged foam edge creeps up the sand and onto the promenade. The wind sucks the air from my lungs and I'm finding it difficult to breath whilst the rain like a thousand needles scarifies the windward side of my face and fills my eye with water. Three crows sit hunched on the fence. At my approach they launch themselves into the air but their flailing wings find no purchase on the gale and they arrow off down the cliff towards the tumult below.
From 15th February 2014
The twisted pine was the inspiration for many poems and much writing over the last few years. Farewell old friend.
