The foghorn moans through the white sky.
The land is grey, of pebble-dash, and is saturated and sad. Both man and a dog scamper over cliff top before the fall, and there unseen at the base of a cliff lies the cagoule, his face placed in the stones. The dog barks, mad, bad, back and forth he climbs the cliff face, chases obscene scent of nothing, chases his tail.
‘Over here, good boy,’ I cry from my window ledge, yet the fog occludes [hew] my face of companionship, and of rescue. Fog shall clear, when I will call the RSPCA, perhaps they might send a helicopter?
Even my view out of the window has consequences. I didn’t ask for this drama. Probably he has family?
My coastal dwelling.
‘There’s a dead man on the beach,’ I say in our kitchen, distant from the habitat of lounge.
‘Really, how awful,’ says my wife. ‘Have you had your poo this morning, only I want to go myself?’
‘Everything is so depressing,’ I say.
‘Well , you shouldn’t eat so much.’
‘At least he was a dog walker.’
‘And not one of those swimmers. I hate ocean swimmers. I don’t mean swimmers, I mean modern swimmers: wholesome types dipping daily with the hat, they make me itch.’
‘I do too,’ she says, ‘in fact, I hate people who stretch limbs in any activity.’
‘Brilliant,’ I say, ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No,’ she replies, ‘you made it.’
‘Thanks Babe. Look I’m going out, see if that dead chap shares my shoe size.’
‘Bye bye Lovely.’