Thursday, April 16, 2009

Shell sound, that's what a squill is and no porpoises.

1. All week my father has been blowing on winkle shells to make them whistle

2. My aunt shows me tight-curled squills -- tiny fists that have squeezed themselves blue -- hiding in the rough clifftop grass.

3. There are no porpoises to be seen, but there is the wind thrumming on the cables of the coastguard's radio mast; and a white pony that gravely lips my open hands.

Heather, portfolio and expand.

1. There are drifts of mauve heather blossom here and there on the common where the trees have been cleared to open up heathland. 2. I rathe...