Storm-Tide At Robin Hoods 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 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, elemental voices return 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 in the one gulp of self. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This one was written a pretty long time ago, but recently fiddled with.