The wind is blowing from the sea.
The breakers roll in ceaselessly
to crash upon the shingle shore.
The shrieking seagulls wheel and soar.
Above the tide line scavenging
for any tit bits they can find.
As usual they’re squabbling
Over what’s been left behind
by the ever restless sea.
Which ebbs and flows twice every day
The freely practice piracy.
Because that is the seagulls way.
I envy them their mastery
of the salt sea and the blue sky.
They ride the thermals easily
and hardly flap a wing to fly.
There is nowhere I would rather be
than walking on this shingle shore.
To watch the sea gulls wheel and soar.
My weary spirits to restore.