On the quay in a cagoule, with a north wind blowing in rain and echoing through the halyards of the Essex smacks. A cormorant headed up the estuary; the Roman River was full and the silent black-headed gulls bobbed on the choppy water. There was no one there, no one at the pub or in the café. The swallows were gone; the golden fields now steely stubble. She was trying to make a phone call for no particular purpose other than to keep in touch with someone. The signal was dead. There were times when something just needed to give.
Oh this spring has been ruinous. These reflections, thoughts! And then heating up yesterday’s leftovers of stew, listening to some millionaire on the radio, distracted by the garden’s bare earth and stunted buds. I got a text from friends on holiday earlier: the sun had come out and they had gone swimming. Here there are flurries of snow again. Tomorrow will be the same. We are becoming desperate. We do not know it but we are.
‘There’s only so long a coat keeps out the cold.’ It was all dad said as finished his pint and returned home to sleep.