Spiderwebs glisten gossamer in the early evening sunlight, fine spun threads of luminosity.
I can smell plant life in the air, fresh and green yet spiked with an earthiness. A bird squawks, car alarm pitch.
I close my eyes and in a sudden rush of breeze the leaves of the trees rustle, transporting me to a deserted beach on a chill day, although my body is warm under the bright gaze of the sun, tide speeding towards me across the sand.
They can sound the same, leaves in the wind and sea over ridged and wrinkled shore.
The heat of the sun is pooling in the crevice of my collar bone, the hollow of the side of my neck between head and shoulder, the left side of my lap.
Skeletal trees line my immediate horizon, the night sky behind above around them a powdery chemicalised orange, nuclear fall-out. The wind blows through my hair, sends it cascading across the lower half of my face, silk twine on tongue.
In this LED evening I have night camera vision and the breeze scrapes dry, rattling leaves across dusty, dried out shore.
The sky is grey and there is a light mist in the air. A bell tolls, its repeated tone resonating out across town, harbour, sea. Sombre. I feel the weight of history. A solitary crow caws throatily as the breath leaves my body in one long, hissing exhalation.
The whole world is shrouded in mist. Large evergreen trees drip heavy moisture from their branches and the evening chorus of birdsong sounds otherworldly in the deepening indigo evening. A violet haze hangs almost to the floor. Silhouettes appear fuzzy, their edges softened by the damp air.
Across the channel the deserted beaches of Flushing are bathed in gentle sunlight. The clouds form thick, heavy configurations, unmoving in the summer-blue sky. As I emerge from the grey stone corridor of Jacob’s Ladder, I cross into a new world, the sun smiling down on me beatifically.
Despite the sunshine my hands are cold and there is a strong, chill, ever-present breeze.
The water in the harbour is a deep azure blue, and along the protected stretch of Greenbank the sun beats gently down on my back, a slippery triangle of heat.
The wind is cold as it blows in off the shore, numbing my hands, ears, forehead. Mast bells clink and toll and seagulls caw, rough and mocking.
The wind blusters around me, buffeting my ears.
The horizon is a wall of dense, unmoving mist. Even the beaches in Flushing are smothered, the odd seaside house looming like an apparition out of the gloom.
The morning is grey and miserly, cold raindrops soaking the pavement.
Sea and sky are one.
A small yacht glides super smooth through the natural harbour between Flushing and Penryn. Warm knife through butter.
The white waterside houses are blinding in the sun. Along Greenbank huge proud houses stand tall and broad, gardens sloping gently down towards the water. Fully leaved palm trees next to naked oaks, permanent breeze: soft yet cold, the sea in my ear.