Monding

Wind comes off the estuary and does not stop at the sea wall. Stepped red-brick gables line the old waterfront, each one a staircase of brick climbing to a narrow peak, and between them a great wooden crane-gate leans its timber jib out over the water. Farther along, iron cranes and tall masts make a second skyline against a grey-green sky. The new quays are broad stone and fresh tar, stacked with crates under tarpaulins. A roofed fish market stands open at both ends, its stone floor already sluiced and shining by mid-morning. Above the harbour office a signal mast carries bright flags snapping in the gusts. Knotted cords in faded colours are tied to every railing. Out on the long grey breakwater, spray bursts over the stones and drifts across the cobbles. Brick red, tar black, harbour green. Nothing here is quiet for long.