Storm-Tide At Robin Hood's Bay

The steep steps go down the winding wash, along the plodded cobbles between the cottages with their smuggling hollows, their sleet rinsed eaves. Beyond the scarp the bay tumbles over shingle, shale and scree to a shore and its contesting tide. Above my flying coat, the crag huddled village bobs and floats in a flooding cloud. I could throw a stick at the sea here and the wind, like a dog would fetch it, and more will come back, as if ancient voices returned to us from the deep. Now a chopping fray, squabbles at a brim where flurries of tern and guillemot trawl for brill; a pell-mell of light roiling on a harrying spray. Today, I allow myself to fail here at the surging squall, and crashing crests; to lapse and founder - to be redone under a gulping spell of myself.