Beyond

They say no two snowflakes are alike, but these all look the same to me: closer to slushy hailstones than to the romantic building blocks of snow-people. It falls down from the grey sky onto the grey floor and it is grey. If white represents death, then this represents a living death.

The wind whips my face so I turn my head away. I look down the promenade, past the rock groynes and machine-disturbed sand, and see all the fishing boats, lifeless. I wonder when the last time was that somebody actually went out to sea in them. The snow seems to pick up a little, like it's trying to cover everything up as quickly as possible. The shoreline makes me think of Pompeii. The dinghies are the children, looking helplessly up to the whammelers who can't do anything to help. A short distance away, perhaps some of the other boats tried to flee, but the snow is omnipotent and inexorable.

In the wind's lull I turn my head back and look out across the bay. The sludge of the tideless coast reflects the greyness of the sky. I think to myself that I've never seen a snowy beach in all my life. The concept only seems strange if you contrast two idealized images of sunny Spanish holidays and chilly North Pole romps in winter onesies. In reality it's not that odd - just an expanse of sand at the mercy of the weather like the rest of us.

I have to head inland now, I've got business to take care of. The snow is settling on the ground now. Passing cars make constant slippy squelches. Streetlights and headlamps cry out, but their rays are polluted with grey flakes. I have to go inland, indoors. I have business to attend to.