the mystical pull
of the outside
tugs against
the rational arguments
of cold
and wet
and windswept
wrapped up
in coat and gloves
I stroll
camera poised
for mother nature’s
spring treasures
of golden blooms
hidden in
shady hedgerows
in between
the brambles
and when
the hailstorm
I tuck the camera away
and grin
as hailstones
sting my cheeks
and bounce off
my gloved fingers
and in my heart
I’m dancing
in the


waves crash
cross promenade
making a new beach
scattered with bricks
torn railings
and shredded benches
a telescope
for viewing far off boats
lies askew
in what was the road
the seawall smashed
and caving in
a hollow
where the floor
should be
white water surges
down the streets
sweeping unwary
off their feet
as the ocean
reminds us
it was never domesticated
just restrained

The seafront in my local town of Aberystwyth has been torn apart by the storms, reminding us of the true strength of the ocean, something which I think we forget too easily.