Catkins, cast adrift from willows by gusting draughts, litter the garden. The grass looks as if plagued by woolly, dusty caterpillars that have emerged from below. The week’s washing flaps and tugs on the line.
The wind has turned to the east. It bites at the skin and catches in the throat.
Today the Spring Equinox has passed and the Sun’s steady climb towards its zenith is celebrated by the arrival of goldfinches bowling in on the chill blow. They chirrup soft songs to each other beneath the raucous complaints of their rowing neighbours.
Blackbirds ruffled by the blustery conditions contest territory. Vicious attacks continue in ignorance of my presence.
On the salt marshes waders lie low. Flight into, across or down wind is difficult. Jerky movements with scooped wings in attempts to control flight, suggest the waterfowl are string-manipulated puppets; uncertainly staggering through the air.
On the great expanse of shingle the German Sea crashes in. Dirty brown rollers maned with white crests are topped-off by the crosswind. Further out, where the water sparkles blue, the triple-bladed wind turbines are shining in the brilliant sunlight. The massive propellors churn relentlessly, feeding the grid.
We spoke this morning. Both in dazzling sunlight, despite being hundreds of kilometres apart.
The distance between us is as nothing. I half-expect to hear you knock at the door.
“Is the kettle on?” you chance.
“Of course! Come in.”