Runners at Studland

We're sitting with mugs of coffee or tea, overlooking Middle Beach at Studland - looking out at the icy sea - at the chalk stacks of Old Harry - the spare shapes of yachts with bare masts -

We rest our tray upon a rough wooden table - our shoes damp with salt water and speckled with sand - warming hands upon the mugs - my arabic scarf is wrapped round my neck

Then - along the sweeping line of sand, backed by dunes, spiky with marram grass - moving past the dark tangled strands of seaweed, cast up on the beach - under the vague grey sky - there's a winding procession of runners - two or three abreast - all running - their feet rasping upon the sand - men and women, running - mostly in silence - though some are laughing - on and on, past us, below upon the beach - running past us - seemingly coming from nowhere, and then running to where we can no longer see them -

We think that it may be a cancer run - but I think of that bird, in the dead of winter - flying from darkness, across the lighted hall, then out into darkness again - I like to think the bird may have been a blackbird, fearless and with a bright yellow beak, making the journey we are all making -