Christmas At Peacehaven, 2012

The sky appears to clear but another layer of grey

moves in to fill its gap, a tease of blue and

upliftings – though only thermals for the birds.

Herring gulls arrive from inland rather than the sea,

seeming tourists like me, and they dive at the dark others,

being bigger and envious of their similar or surer hovers.

It is then a full shroud of grey, so sudden the surprise

has missed its chance for that brief buzz, and now

in another quick shift I am baking behind bungalow glass,

sitting in sun knowing this should be the narrative and

theme yet driven by mood and preoccupation like the

Christmas wind's wild control of cloud formations this

stormy winter in Peacehaven. In town, the Murder House

was also someone else's home before the dark rolled in.

I actually had a great Christmas week at Peacehaven this year. With a house on the cliffs overlooking the sea, the wild weather was something exciting to observe. But it was wet and windy and grey and the poem above captures a moment of reflection and then exaggerates that - it is the narrative ruse; the dramatisation for effect. The empty Murder House in Peacehaven has its appellation and other messages painted in bright red letters all along its walls and front and you can find details about the story online. Just in case anyone is interested in the process.

Rental in row to left, and view on the one fine, beautiful day.