Today I rediscovered The Undercliff. Oh! lovely Undercliff. One of the treasures of Brighton when I moved here. I don't even know when it was re-opened - could be a year ago for all I know. It hardly matters now: today we ran back into each others arms and... well, it was ever so quietly pleasant. The Undercliff is thoroughly back in my world.
I sat and read and wrote and read some more and nipped up to Rottingdean for a Thai meal-in-a-box to eat sitting on the rocks, and read and read until an hour after sunset, holding the book closer and closer to my eyes until they gave me up to Jupiter and the night.
And I wished I could write songs like Tom de Grundercliff.
This was Up when I arrived:
There were plovers and wagtails,
pipits and skylarks,
kestrels and starlings and doves.
There were squabbling parties of black-headed gulls, this being safely beyond the well-patrolled borders of the Zone of Herring Gull Imperialism.
I looked for sandwich terns.
I always look for sandwich terns.
(that's me looking for sandwich terns)
(under the cliff)