Two walks this weekend, one at dusk when I walked to the car and saw the sky was lighter than I expected, tree branches wriggling across it in dramatic lines. I walked past the car and down the street as the street lamps came on. I took my gloves out of my pocket and heard my pocket shell fall, searched for it with my torch and replaced it. I went to the pond and circled it. Two ducks, a make and female, were resting at the edge, their heads tucked in against the wind. An Egyptian goose and a moorhen were scrabbling in the mud, and as I passed the moorhen fled into the water, a worm in its beak. The rushes at the edge were dry, rustling in the wind, and all the birds were singing as darkness came and living rooms and bathrooms lit up, shining yellow squares onto the pavement.
The next day we went to the beach as the sun lowered. I swam, the water so cold I got an ice cream headache without putting my face in. Then we walked along the base of the chalk cliffs. The sand was deep, shifted by weather or a storm, and the railing that usually descended at the edge of a ramp disappeared into sand as soon as it dipped. We worked through it, feet slipping, and the sky turned pink. The wet sand threw back the colour as the tide retreated. A pigeon cooed repetitively in a hollow in the cliff. The the sky flared orange and peach, turquoise and yellow, blue and white in bands across the horizon. Brilliant colour was reflected in all the rock pools and the huge steamer on the horizon became no more than lights.
Bonnie Radcliffe 