25th September from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth

West Cliff Green is a space between.  Between the town and the sand.  Between the sea and the sky, the cliff and the air.  It is the territory of gulls and of pigeon and crows.  It is a liminal space limited only by those who frequent it.  By the walkers and joggers, the wayfarerers and the wasters, the wellness fanatics, the readers and the runners.  Those who see it from their buggies for the first time or the last.  Those who are wealthy in years and those whose wealth is in time.  There are memories that run between the Raj and the New Caroleans.  It is place before and beyond. Between despair and hope.  Of life and death and the madness between.  And now the liminal is the time between summer and autumn.  Between Here and Now.  A not time when the year stands still and holds its breath.

From 25th September 2021

A dead grey sky and a breze freshening towards the evening. Green waves turning over gently onto the sand. There are still flowers to be found in sheltered places. Looking a little tired, perhaps, but still clinging on. Mallow, Rosebay Willow Herb and the twinkling bright blue of the baorage flowers against their big reptilian leaves. The sun sets due west so all the big apartment blocks on the East Cliff orientated East West suddenly flash and glare with brilliant orange light as it makes a brief appearance beneath the cloud cover leaving long smudges and streaks of pink and magenta as the lights on the prom begin to prickle on.

From 25th September 2015

The fisherman is doing well. He is standing in the back of his rowing boat surrounded by a cloud of gulls like St Francis and the creatures of the air. The magpies and pigeons have the grass to themselves. A trio of cauliflowers, white, pink and blue chortle and wave their walking sticks to elderly men passing in the other direction. They are here to enjoy themselves. A small girl walks neatly along the footpath her white dog is pin sharp and breathing the whole of the dawn. Under the trees a gentleman tries to suck every last ounce of warmth from his dew sodden sleeping bag. We acknowledge each other's presence in the world by a little hand gesture. Such is the early morning traffic of the West Cliff.