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Wrapped in chilly December air. Within licking distance of January. The mouth of Weymouth Bay yawned at expiring 2020; casting a cacophony of deep, resonant ships horns. Ghost ships. Floating hotels devoid of passenger and crew, decorating the wintry darkness with strings of pearl and diamond portholes.

Seven and a half hours later, against misted zodiacal skies blushing with orange, bronze and yellow, emerged shadows then shapes of colossal vessels; one-fifth of a mile long. Their wallowing walls of windows watching silent, still. Towering over fishing trawlers like high rise flats next to matchboxes. Waiting for tourism's starting gun.

3 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt 10 months ago

    Beautifully atmospheric! I confessed to a shiver as I read this. There is something rather eerie about the emptiness of such vessels which you have captured. I wather like the wallowing walls of windows watching silent, still; why it’s an alliterative feast!

  • avatar

    Rachel Bee 10 months ago

    Thank you, I did rather gorge myself ;o)

  • avatar

    Christopher 10 months ago

    Very atmospheric.

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