Brilliant Skies in Brum... St Martin's Church.

A recent trip to Birmingham city centre took me back to gaze up at the facade of St Martin's church. As a Victorian building, dating back to 1873 when the original 13th century edifice was demolished, it lacks that unique Medieval stature and strange quirkiness.

However, many of its details catch our attention and the whole offers such a striking contrast with the surrounding 21st century urban landscape that the effect cannot go unnoticed...

The church as it stands today is encircled by the ultra-modern shopping complex - the Selfridges Building - and the older, more traditional retail market of the Bull Ring....

The curious blob-shaped structure of the shopping centre with its futuristic silver hubs contrasts with the stonework of the dignified spires of the church which in turn stand out against a horizon punctuated with the latest contructions.

Looking up at the sculpted heads, grimacing faces and expressive gestures on the facade, you wonder when and why we lost interest in such detail...

That said, our screen-fueled existences mean that we rarely lift our eyes up and beyond, to observe what or who is directly in front of us in the present moment...

And our thoughts are consumed by consumerism; how and when to purchase the next actively trending item or ticket to some 'experience' as seen on social media, as if we were trapped on a frenetic merry-go-round that spins us round and round...

How would those who attended St Martin's at the end of the 19th century view our 21st century take on the path to fulfilment, I wonder? Blue skies or storms ahead?

Purple and Grey... Mount's Bay.

In terms of early morning walks, there is nothing more 'agreable' - for the want of a better term - than the stroll over from Penzance to Mousehole via Newlyn, going from one town to the other along the seafront that stretches out in front of the vast expanse of Mount's Bay, before winding your way around the coast towards the little village that Welsh poet Dylan Thomas described as 'the loveliest village in England'.

Without fail, my eyes are instinctively drawn to look for the perfect pebble or stone along the beach at Wherrytown - specimens of speckled, smoothed granite perfection resembling mishapen seagull eggs...

Whatever the weather, the views are always dramatic and timeless in their beauty, which invariably seems to be a study in slate grey and silver, although this time there were touches of gentle mauve and vibrant purple...

The hydrangeas at Mousehole were the same soft colour as the ruffled poppies along the roadside allotments. This made a pleasant contrast with the typical blue variety of Cornish Mophead.

Despite the frequent showers of rain of varying intensity - I invariably get drenched during one walk or another ! - the climate is mild enough for all types of flowering plant to survive and thrive in the region...

But with or without the seasonal flowers, the seascape is ever-breathtaking, and strangely peaceful in its vastness with the early morning fishing boats skirting the coast, leaving a trail on the surface of the water as the seabirds trace across the skies above them...

A Sea of Crimson..... Poppies.

The stunning sight of a sea of crimson poppies always takes you by surprise, causing you to catch your breath in wonder. Swathes of vivid colour stretch out before you, cloaking the most unassuming terrain or wasteland with such intensity that it is difficult to believe that this will be just a fleeting moment in time. The delicate papery petals will shortly wilt and die off, one by one, flower by flower until the whole expanse has vanished for another year.

The strange mixture of ephemerality and intensity, complexity and simplicity, forcefulness and fragility makes this phenomenon all the more incredible and it is not surprising that fields of poppies are synonymous with the battlefields of World War 1, which would bloom overnight with flowers that seemed to draw from the blood spilt on the foreign soil of France and Belgium.

Not surprising either then, that the poppy should have inspired a number of war poets, one of whom being the Canadian, John McCrae, who wrote In Flanders Fields in 1915, a few years before his own death, in 1918.

In Flanders fields the poppies grown, between the crosses row on row, that mark our place; and in the sky, the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields.