Out Of Season

evening all,

A very cold afternoon in Seahouses, the tour boats have been taken out of the water and stand silently waiting on the quayside for the warmer and busier seasons.

Intermittent, wind chased figures, hands thrust deep in pockets and heads reverently bowed to keep away the cold walk the long length of the harbour side with all the enthusiasm of condemned prisoners heading toward the scaffold.

A quick, brave glance over the breakwater fills their face with the salty tang of seawater tears and the chill, flat open handed slap of a violent squall,

then a turn, sentence commuted, the prisoners of the elements head back toward the relative safety of the seafront's twinkling beacons of captivity,  pushed in the back by the wind, and dragged in the front by small children and big dogs,  

home is the tourist, home from the seafront...

night all


the almighty