17th December from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
Someone has been playing noughts and crosses in the thick white frost on the clifftop path. But the wind has swung round to the South west; there is a warmer feel to the air and in a couple of hours the game has gone. But the wind is still rough and the bay is choppy and fretful. Gulls whirl in the air as the grey clouds begin to lumber across the sky. Pigeons and magpies have resumed their customary places in the bare top branches of trees. Someone has paused to gaze at the wintery view and put their drink down and forgotten to pick it up again.
From 17th December 2018
There is something theatrical in the way the gauzy moon lights up the great swelling banks of ghostly cloud. They create a powerful backdrop to the navy night. The air bites shrewdly, it is very cold. The tall flats blaze out as though some party in the keep at Elsinore where the usurping king takes his rouse, blah, blah.
