I woke this morning with winter legs. They usually arrive some time in October on the cold and damp. There is no recourse but to exercise and work through the pain. Today, I took a constitutional up Fairfield – an easier slope than my usual. Nothing like the hills of Rome but nonetheless significantly hilly in these parts. The attempt at social distancing from the oncoming walkers was commendable. The leaves of Autumn flurried in the hardening wind, collecting like burial mounds. It is the same every year on these pavements. I arrived at the coast. It sounds so grand to describe the walk to the seafront. The sea had filled the beaches, heavy with waves and seahorses. The groynes lost in their own thoughts, largely drowned out. I trundled along, skirting the Grand, and bumped into old friends and great glee of comings and goings in Downing Street. How we bring meaning to our lives, I thought, as I pined for the gazelle legs of summer.

© Rick Frame


Short supply

The sky rolls in on dirty grey clouds and the half
awake wind idles the afternoon away.
There is no messiah in sight.
Sunlight is in such short supply (like hope) 
on these June days, the rain bringing
a downpour of uncivil conversations, shouty, colourless voices hollowing out, draining the already feeble light. 
There is no bang,
only a whimper of humourless theories to darken the sky.