11th November from the West Cliff Green, Bournemouth
The steady roar of the sea fills the air. Joins with the susurration of the wind in the treetops, the distant gasp of a Boeing 737 taking off for Tenerife, the throb of a volumetric and concrete pumper where a new swimming pool is being constructed in a nearby hotel garden. The whole green is somehow encompassed in a bubble of sound. Figures crossing to and fro seem small and distant. Part of the scene yet divorced from it. It is a single sound snapshot. The flowers on the memorial to DAD have faded and blackened. “Blowy isn’t it?” says someone. A crow follows me along the path keeping pace, flying ahead and waiting. I realise he has spotted my bag and thinks there may be treats inside. I am part of a scene.
From 11th November 2019
I feel like Prospero striding his Magic Isle. The chill, damp air is, indeed, full of strange noises. The steady hiss and thump of the waves. The brisk West wind in the tree tops, throwing startling dark shadows dancing across the street lamps. The big yellow leaves of the sweet chestnuts hit the path with a distinctive echoing slap. On a nearby building site someone drops a pile of something metallic. Electric motors whirr. Bins are tipped into rubbish lorries. An ambulance waits patiently while the paramedics care for someone in distress. Two planes fly far overhead on their way to Gatwick. A robin sings briefly from the fence next to me, then realising I have nothing to contribute, flies off disappointed. The alley to the main road is deserted but dents the darkness with its lights belying the fact that, for many, the day began long ago.
