The wind has been playful all day

along the castellations of the coastline

ducking down behind signs

aquaplaning through valleys

puffing deckchairs inside out

 

brushing the pelts of heather and vetch

forcing his attentions

fancying his chances

 

troubling those in age's advances

and like all young souls has worn himself out

hands deep in air pockets

 

creeping sullenly around the fringe of a pastel bay

sees the esplanade in his way

 knows that only the sea can refresh him

 

one last whip round the flowers and shrubs

then drifting down in a dying dance with playful waves

he leaves a hint of mackerel spindrift

dreaming of vortices.