Grey is the fashion colour here today.
Or so cloud, sea, and dunes appear to say.
The flying spume wets all and veils the view
And wind-blown sand, like shot, near pierces through.
Who would believe, amid this scene of blight,
This place, at other times, that quiet delight
Of friendly breezes, little waves that sigh,
To leave my heart content and heaven-high.
Now, huddled gulls, stiff-legged, their necks pulled in,
Cry all the world’s despair above the din.
As one they brace to face the cruel caress,
And share with me a mutual wretchedness.