Out past the Marina

The sea is cold against the rock.
The tide here is left to its own devices, an industry of brown frothy mechanisms, of spindrift violence against the rocks. A ship or two on the horizon. A darkening of the sky there - memories of typhoon photographs from childhood. Rain starts and the wind rises - and dies - rises and dies, a faulty resurrection breeze.
The slow and heavy rain, a sparsity of inverted heart-drops, is lulling and lolling, a rhythm that hypnotises like certain snakes are supposed to, like the distance. I feel like a rabbit caught in the twilights of Sunday evening.
We pass by the cafe at Ovingdean, the clusters of families and dog-walkers, and I laugh as a man cycles past and says to his companion, quite seriously, that 'the problem with those two is that when they feel they have nothing to say they have nothing to say'.
By the time we get to Rottingdean, it is churchyard-Sunday cold, and I am glad when the bus arrives, and the rain has grown uncomfortably heavier.