16th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The cold, vicious rain sweeps across the green in long, grey curtains. The trees rattle and sway. I ask Omar who has taken up residence in the Cliff top shelter if he can keep out of the rain. He assures me he has a friend he can go to. The sea has calmed down from yesterday but it still shows that lazy power that might be a bully looking for a weakness to spring on with hard knuckles and sarcastic jibes. The rain is so heavy that it is impossible to see more than a few metres from the shore. Elderly couples sit in their cars with the engines running and the windows fogged up. They stare at where the sea might be. One or two joggers in shorts and flimsy jackets sprint by. There is an air of concentration in their eyes that betrays nothing outside the present horror. The light is thick and almost impenetratable. By three o’clock the street lights are coming on. The day folds in on itself.
From 16th November 2020
There is the slightest breath of fresh, chill breeze. The lights from distant streetlamps and the flats and hotels twinkle through the bare branches of the trees giving an early festive air. The air has that peculiar browny mauve that comes just before dawn, making everything seem soft and ill defined as it emerges from the darkness. The long straight waves are calmer now than the fury of yesterday’s sea but as it is a spring tide they push high up the beach with a half-hearted roar. Everything seems distant and detached. A party of thirty or forty gulls prefer trampling the cliff top grass for worms rather than anything more taxing out in the bay. A crow, flying low above disturbs them but they only wheel round once and land back where they were. A pair of pied wagtails skitter up the path in front of me. The light slowly changes to pink as the grey slabs of cloud slide imperceptibly aside like tectonic plates to reveal a soft blue sky streaked with gold.
