Number Twenty-One - Hurst Point
Friday night before the funeral.
Too much to drink at the airport, and arrive with a conversation ill-advised.
Unaware of Albert Finney's death until the following morning. Front page in the village shop.
Watching Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, want to freeze-frame Shirley Anne-Field and him clinging to a chainlink fence.
A small cut out newspaper image on the wall of my second student bedroom. Couldn't erase the blu-tac residue.
Driving toward the beach, dogs whimpering in the boot.
The shingle firm and shining.
A quartet of flying swans struggling to keep their heavy bodies airborne in the cutting wind.
Dad buries his head in the collar of his donkey jacket.
Mum says that with the sunlight on distant hills, we could almost imagine we were somewhere else, somewhere nice.