Wind over Whitecliff

A strong Sou’Wester,
Storm Gerrit, someone’s called it,
Harrying over the harbour,
Pulsating over the park.

Storm clouds loom,
Dark, ominous, threatening rain,
But illuminated by
Shifting shafts of sunlight:
A wind-blown, ever-changing
Cloud and light show.

Birds huddle, blast-beruffled
(to borrow Hardy’s perfect phrase)
Crows on the grass,
Gulls on the water,
All facing beak-to-wind,
Not much of a day
For flying.

Well-wrapped walkers
Partake brisk, breezy
Post-Christmas invigoration.
A lone cyclist struggling
To make headway against the wind
Decides to accept defeat
And dismount and walk and push.

Faded flapping flowers,
For Bill and Doreen, who loved this view.
The wind tugs and tears
At the battered bouquet,
But cannot blow it away –
Forever in our hearts.

Model yachts with reefed sails
Whip over the waves.
Two, tangled after a collision,
Drift shoreward together
To be retrieved by their owners
For rescue and rigging repairs.

Taking their cue, I turn too
And head for home
With my back to the wind,
Already anticipating, savouring,
The welcome thought of
Tea and toast by the fire.