Morning

I enjoy the morning in coastal towns, this is not an Instagram thing, it is not sunrises and picturesque people sipping lattes outside artfully independent coffee shops with watercolour filters thrown across the whole scene.

I enjoy the morning in coastal towns, the morning after paintings by Atkinson Grimshaw, the mornings that start as early as it’s light enough to inspect the streets.There’s a sense of survival, of having made it through another night, a sense of wishing to check, to see, it’s all still there; that the defences weren’t breached; that the pier didn’t wash away.

I enjoy the morning in coastal towns, regardless of the weather we seem to need to sweep away the sea’s detritus. Half a mile from the beach and there’s seaweed in the streets. In the morning when we see what she’s done, what she’s given us and what she’s taken, in the dark. In the morning when she may still be rumbling on or may have calmed and slept. In the morning when we’re just pleased to be beside her.

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