25th May from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

I’ve noted before how the West Cliff Green is part of a world of lines and edges. The cliff edge forms a division between earth and air. The beach is a space between sea and land. The horizon is a line dividing sea and sky. The whole West Cliff Green itself is a liminal area between town and sea. Today the Council workers introduced new lines as the mowed along path edges and round the benches. The difference between the long grass and the shorn areas with their swirls of hay is dramatic. The scent is heavy and hangs in the air. A patch of sorrel grows in the shade of the trees. Pigeons coo. Men sunbathe with their shirts off. The sea is like tinfoil. The day is at one time grey and then another time blue. It is in that liminal time between spring and summer.

From 25th May 2022

The clouds thicken and darken and leave a letterbox opening for the lemony yellow sunset rays to shine through. The waves wrinkle and shrug at the bullying little breeze. Rain prickles down. The evening convocation of gulls assemble on the rooftops and follow the seagull man down to the clifftop where he will treat them to a sausage supper. Blackbirds and thrushes quieten the evening again. #bournemouth #westcliffgreen #may #summer

From 25th May 2021

The air at first light is fresh and still. There is a heavy dew. It is almost cold enough for a frost. The wrinkled sea folds itself onto the beach neatly and with a regular hush. The clifftop grass is unmown this year and is swaying in a breath of breeze with heavy, full seed heads. Rye grass, cocksfoot, timothy and other, meadow, grasses I can't name. Smaller members of the carrot family are adding to the pattern. Tradespeople , anxious to get on with their work on local building sites and hotels are emerging from the cars where they have slept overnight stretching and yawning. A guy in a wet suit with a worn yellow surf board under his arm grins at me. "Just time before I have to go to work." One of the old wind twisted dark pines is home to a family of gold finches. They fill the dawn air with their twittering, bubbling song.

From 25th May 2018

The great arc of the Bay from the Needles to Old Harry is mirror smooth save where little patches, tickled by the breeze, shiver like the skin on the neck of an old grey pony remembering summers gone by. Old Harry himself is suddenly gaudy pink in the sunrise. Tired of a long grey winter we all like to put on something bright from time to time so we can't fault his desire to put on something bright; for however short a time. This is the sea-side after all. The fisherman stands in his boat silhouetted against the silver water hauling in his bait lines. Starlings wheeze away like the party of old pensioners enjoying the day before breakfast.