The surf spat like a spoiled toad
And the wind washed faces with spray,
While a dozen walkers to’d and fro’d.
Gritty grey clouds crowded
Looking stately, steely, stern and gruff;
Hulking behind the glass-eyed houses
Peering from the plateau above the bluff.
The sea took in the monochrome sky
And turned into that greeny grainy blue
That never pleases quite enough
To achieve the level of a lovely view.
Often when the slow churning sky turns dark
The cold water seems warmer than the bitter air.
But today those waves of creamy chop and froth
Were too ragged with rips and tows to try their fare.
Then the rain swept up from the south
Careening across, making bubbles like blisters on the swell.
Showered droplets drenched sand into patterned pockmarks
While walkers stretched their steps into runs of rude farewell.