One evening, I went for a walk with Penny along Middle Beach - I was calmed by the still sea - the sky was a darkening blue, suffused with the afterglow of an April sunset - I stared at the delicate washes of colour - I thought how an artist might sit here, with fine brushes, to paint this scene - but how could one capture such tender hues?
Yachts were anchored in the bay - we could see their white hulls and bare masts - the trees overlooking the beach were dark against the sky - the damp sand was firm to walk on - some teenagers drank from cans around a barbecue - someone had scored a cartoon picture of a little girl with her dog into the damp sand - I thought about all of the people who had walked upon this beach during the daytime - all that was left of them was the marks they had made in the sand -
The beach curved before us, stretching in a crescent towards Bramble Bay, and the narrow entrance to Poole Harbour - there was a fierce current there, scouring a deep channel for the cross channel ferries -
I felt the darkness come down from above me - one last outpouring of light from the fallen sun lit up the sky behind the dunes - I saw, for a few moments, a contrail, reaching up to the heavens - I thought it marked the flight upwards of a curious angel -
Leaving the beach, we walked through the graveyard of St Nicholas Church - we'd seen a young rabbit, frozen with terror, in a field of bluebells - the church, says Pevsner, is "one of the dozen or so most complete Norman village churches" - excavations, however, reveal pre-conquest origins - narrow arched windows pierce thick walls of dark stone - inside are poignant memorial tablets -
There was some sort of service going on - lights glowed within the church - two rooks flew over the tower - I thought I heard music - or did I imagine this? -
I felt, suddenly, full of a sweet sadness - I went quickly back with Penny to the Peugeot, and we drove away, through the waiting night -
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