Walney

Curled around the thumb of Furness like a protecting palm
lies Walney, first landfall for the Western waves
heaving their cold, grey bulk across the Irish Sea.
Merciless, relentless, untiring,
they crash upon the shore at Sandy Gap,
smoothing sharp rocks to pebbles,
grinding smooth pebbles to sand.
 
Their ruthless friend, the wind,
tears into hair and eyes and clothes,
turning coats into flapping wings
and snatching caps to hurl them to the skies.
Brave Walney endures the realpolitik of weather
intent on total war, no mercy shown, no quarter given.
 
In Summer’s truce, we throng the glittering shore  
to walk, swim, play and peer in rocky pools,
or simply drowse in Mediterranean sloth.  
But with September’s new campaign,
the bright colours of Summer –
the blues, the gold, the blinding white of sand –
retreat and coalesce to greys and browns
as Walney hunches its shoulders and returns once more
to face the bruising world of wind and waves.