Personal Descriptive Writing - The Long Coarse Grass

  Along the coastline stretched a cliff, its dark face harsh against the sea and sky, while the waves and spray were continually dashed against the jagged rocks beneath. A few sheep huddled together amongst the thin grass, a puny show of resistance against the storm.

  On this coastline stood a house, a lone white bungalow. It was small, square, and somehow defiant, as thought determined to resist nature’s fury. The grass growing around its walls was at least a foot tall, while amongst the tangle of weeds in the flower beds lurked a few battered plants, the flowers of which had long since died. The windows rattled in their panes like the loose teeth of an ancient crone, as the wind whistled and howled, forcing its way inside the house through the gaps under the doors. Inside, around the crumbling stone fireplace a mass of soot had been swept down from the draughty chimney, where it settled, a thick soft mantle on the pale brick. The squeaking and scrabbling of rats could be heard inside the rotting walls, and as the ancient doors creaked on their rusty hinges a group of starlings huddled under the eaves in the attic. The damp, clinging smell of decayed wood mingled with the briny, salty air from outside.                 

  Gradually the storm began to subside, and as it became more subdued other sounds began to emerge. The screeching of seagulls became audible, and as the wind dropped a peaceful atmosphere came over the house. One could picture the happier days when it was full of rowdy children, when the garden was well kept, and when there was an essence of life other than that of the rats and mice. The clouds broke apart outside, and a frail beam of sunlight snaked its way into the bungalow, throwing light on the walls and floorboards. Outside, a chaffinch started to sing.