by Fergus Church
It’s a strange thing to hear the sea when you’re 40 odd miles from it, sat on a wooden bench underneath train tracks and footsteps.
A blue tarpaulin. Plastic crates. The stuff of seafarers.
The dampness in the underground air acquires a salty tang.
The high brick walls crag themselves into cliffs embracing a beach.
The sea suddenly feels close.
We are sat around in the half-dark, waiting for something to happen, the tide to come in at dusk.
Then the blueness is unfurled and the waves are lapping at our toes.