dogs of november
Moored with weedy strands of rope against an absent tide, the fishing boats are canted at all angles. They are stumpy & made of wood, all colours like a box of sweets, red & blue with fluorescent pink fenders, green & yellow with white numerals on the side. Pennants stream from the masts of the bigger ones in the wind. A dog runs between them. After it has gone, & its pawprints have filled slowly with water, nothing happens for twenty minutes. Then a woman walks across the sand & climbs laboriously into one of the boats. The bottles clink in her shopping bag. Rain comes on. A hovering gull is reflected for a second in the rain-polished stones of the harbour, before it creams away on urgent business, flying very straight and level above the town until it swoops down & disappears among the roofs. Someone you know walks past hunched up against the rain, never looking up at the window.