16th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Another hard frost. Crunchy grass and diamond encrusted foot paths. Leaves wear little jewel encrusted diadems. The sea is almost dead calm and the sun explodes out of a cloudless, blue sky. But it is so low in the sky that its rays are nearly horizontal and casts long shadows even at mid day. Fishing boats circle on the tide. Crows croak, gulls wail, robins and blackbirds chortle from the bushes where finches squeak and squabble. A single aeroplane scratches the sky far above.
From 16th December 2020
The stiff onshore breeze is propelling a crazy mess of white spume and spindrift right up the beach to the prom. Thich gouts of yellow foam collect at the water's edge. Further out the broken, sickening grey-green waves say "Landlubbers stay away." On the wet grass a lone magpie, wind ruffling his feathers stands next to a bunch of fresh white roses as if saying "I am what I am." The grey year is turning towards the shortest day.
From 16th December 2019
A sullen grey afternoon. The surf is lacy white at the tide’s edge but a trick of the light makes the foam dance around deep black shadows. For a few moments I think there is something in the sea. A buoy adrift maybe or even a seal popping its head out of the water. But no, it is just the light and shade. A pigeon darts by in the gloom, its wings making a loud whining sound as it passes at speed. A second pigeon claps its wings and I am taken back to my childhood lying in wait among the trees for homecoming flocks of woodpigeons on just such days.
