Heading out, jacketed and scarved against the cold, the November light teased, oddly bright. No wind to blight the outing. Footfall on pavement, the oncoming strollers, some masked, skirted by. In other plagues, carts and bells had clopped by: this time, it was silent in the time of the corona. Hill walk breathed fresh sea air and then, in sight, the sea-line towards France. A straight horizon – a trick of the eye – between sea and sky, clouds above had caught the light, no doubt seen by fishermen, specks on the blue. Other visitors, other coasts, far to the south, oceans away, a memory of when we had sweltered. The harbour below hummed in the Durban heat; we were barbecuing in a nineties November, sea salt air lightly dusted, – just wait for December – chased by a lager and conversations that had put the world to rights.
© Rick Frame