Like backdrop
stills on fifties film noir reels.
Dark clouds
hovered ‘round sea gulls on attack,
Swollen waves
rolled heavy like iron wheels.
No fishermen dared
test the coarse wet sand
And downcast
walkers trudged their way back home,
While watchers sat
in cars parked on the strand,
Counting the sets
and pointing at the foam.
As brine fizzed
frothy on each curling crest
In failing light
an eagle cut the air,
Swooping through every
swirl to catch its quest,
Before it soared on wind-fired wings with flare.
And then the
freezing gusts cried out like prey
While rain pelted
the shore around the bay.
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