She thunders in blues and greens,
With hints of white and foam,
Never ceasing in continual turmoil,
The hiss as she hits damp sand and rolls back,
I sit on this tempered rock beaten smooth by millennia of pounding waves, As its rage turns more of it to sand,
In its prehistoric rage I find solitude,
A symphony in its anger,
Its salty mists hit my face,
And brings out my primeval solace,
I hang my head as the pounding wave’s talk of my past,
With no future to see,
And she speaks as I listen,
But in ore of her I watch,
As she continues on,
Long after I am just dust and shadows of my past.
I love the sea, I grew up in London, and we would go down to Cornwall in May, and then in August we would go down to Kent. There was something magical, cresting a hill and seeing the sea. I still get the thrill of just sitting there, watching it, the smell. It always takes me back to that childhood moment.