Ad Lib 3

 Spring perfumes the Dover air. White clouds of cherry blossom adorn china blue skies. Beneath flint walls, laid in the aftermath of the 1066 Norman Conquest, daffodils unfurl their saffron standards.

Whilst Easter Bunnies sunbathe, ears pricked warily, upon the grassy slopes which crown the White Cliffs.

The air is so crisply clear that, from up here, beyond the bustle of the ferry port. . . .

. . . .the rectangular reactor halls, of the two (decommissioned) Dungeness nuclear power stations, are visible on the horizon. Fully twenty miles to the west.

At the cliff foot, the sea laps laguidly. Calm, for now. Above, clouds boil. A sign that Storm Dave is riding in from the north, astride the jetstream. Like a latter day King Harold, galloping south to do battle upon the Hastings shoreline.