NOTHING happens here. Groynes run out across the stones, black uniformed arms linked to hold back the longshore drift. Close to, the posts are green, bearded with weed and pocked with barnacles. Pebbles bank behind them, then dip and pool around their feet. The incoming tide swirls up and deposits sand-stained froth on their boots.
Cold today. But when is it not? The wind seeks out crevices, fumbles buttons and tugs at laces. Where its fingers touch they leave smears of salt. Across the skin, through the hair. Its hands smell of weather, wrack and shingle, dark seams of tar round scabbed knuckles, sharp silicate grit under chipped nails.
Nothing happens here. The wind blows and the surf roars and sucks, beating out the sea’s halting rhythm until world’s end.