Promenade
It’s a simple enough act, walking along the promenade between Brighton Pier and the skeleton of the West Pier; both present, intensely in the moment, part of the spectacle, and at the same time removed, an observer of the spectacle, and its shadow, in the drama of the ordinary and the everyday. Continue reading
Room With A View
Cold morning light. Runners, dog walkers, people on their way to work passing shelters already vacated. Sleeping bags, carrier bags, hold alls stowed under benches. Apart from one shelter.
On the Prom
Your voice drifts across the rectangle of decking where I’m sitting, between the café and the beach.‘Ok darling. Yes, of course you know what you’re doing, but I just-‘You place the mobile on the table, cradle…
Stranded
Stand on a crack break your back stand on a line break your spine stand on a nail you go to jail…
Flying Free
A boy sits on the pavement near the entrance to the pier. He clutches a length of twine, to which is tethered a pink balloon, whipping, cracking in the wind. His parents stand next to him.
Always Here
Sparse grey hair, weathered skin, stained baggy trousers. His big toe pokes out of his right shoe, the left is split along the outer edge, the heel missing.
Neighbours
It’s cold, and the rain’s set in, but at least the promenade’s quiet, and the shelter should be empty. I don’t bother anyone, don’t want anyone bothering me.