26th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
It’s impossible to describe the colours of the tumbling clouds in words. From pristine white to dove, to stone, to slate, to charcoal. And the darker masses edged with lighter colours. And where they pull apart the sun shines weakly from the grey blue heavens. The waves are dark grey and disorganised. A broken chop edged and flecked in white. A soft mist hangs across the bay and everything is without definition. The tree trunks, nearly bare of leaves, are muted to match everything else.Only the undergrowth still retains some colour. The wind is hurried and pushes aside anything in its way. Cold rain spits and frets. A kestrel hangs on the blast its wings barely fluttering at the edges as it concentrates on something in the gorse below.
From 26th November 2018
Although the hare-hunters' Moon has passed full, tonight it is as bright as a searchlight, casting deep black shadows among the trees whilst in the open I can clearly see across the bay to the shapes of the Purbeck Hills. Tiny lights wink from a distant container ship as it glides across the horizon and a steady glow shows where a tanker rides at anchor. Under my feet the grass has the glitter and crunch of the sharp frost. The sky is clear enough for me to make out the constellations even above the street lights and, low down in the Western sky, I can easily pick out the red glow of Mars. I pause for a moment to salute the ingenuity and co-operation of the men and women who, in the last hour, have landed a ship there. I wonder that here on earth venal, ignorant politicians are only capable of drawing battle lines.
