You see the wind, you feel it shove,
it tugs at hats, scarves, coats.
The clouds are hurrying above
driving away all motes.
The air is fresh and smells of salt,
that’s carried by the gust.
Your taste buds notice by default
a proper drink’s a must.
But then you wait and breathe and stay
deeply moved by the show.
Your face is covered by the spray
before you turn and go.
Long after it you can still hear
the crashing of the surf.
For you one thing is crystal clear:
the sea is your home turf.
