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The Storm 

We stand at the edge of the sea
Where waves rush towards us like snapping dogs
and high above our heads, the seagulls surf the wind for thrills.
Their noisy squawks and calls cannot be ignored,
As the storm carries them upon its windy back,
To deposit them above the harbour.

The weather worsens, so we head towards the pub in the harbour,
While the thrashing nauseous sea
Finds things that it had long hidden and throws them back:
The wood from a boat, a fishing pole, the rubber balls from a hundred dogs.
Looked over by beachcombers but mostly ignored.
These are not the things that bring them thrills.

Then those who find that surfing, thrills,
Come up mob-handed, these strange, seal-like creatures, from the harbour,
and the tempest is ignored.
As they rush, laughing towards the sea.
This angry sea told about in tales by old sea dogs.
They surf on to the beach, then turn and swim back.

We carry on to shelter. Turning back,
we see the seagulls have forsaken their wind-swept thrills
and stand around, begging like hungry dogs,
In the pub carpark, on the harbour.
But coach trip visitors who have come for the day to the sea,
Cram into the pub, to avoid the storm and the seagulls are ignored.

The sign that reads ‘No Wet Clothes in The Bar’ has been ignored.
When they’ve dried and eaten, they’ll go back,
To tell their friends about the angry sea
and how, in a tiny whitewashed pub, they found safe harbour.
They came for thrills,
And ate hot dogs.

We sat on the carpet in front of the fire like two wet dogs,
The singeing smell from our clothes was ignored.
As we dried ourselves in that cold harbour.
And resolved to go back
to see what thrills 
had been left in our house for us, by our neighbour the sea.

Later in the pub, stories of the sea 
are told by the locals, the old ‘Sea Dogs’,
But today, everyone thrills
to their tales and they are not ignored. 
For we all live around this harbour,
And now we really must head back.
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