The  bell of the wind
chimes in the clash
of sea and sky
this grey mass
which fuses in
thin lines far away
and  I on shore
try to stretch my
sight to capture
a ship perhaps
ducking  up and down
far away
sheltering in the lee
of the wind's breath
as it cranks and
moans  about their
and  I hear the
seagulls cry, their
dismal note
soaks into the
grey grey
scenery with no
let-up in the drabness
no  splash of red
or  green
to be seen
anywhere  on
sea or land
all seems dead
to the strike
of the wind.

The  wind hums  and
skirls the seawater
into wrinkled lines
shuddering uneasily
unsure of where  to
haphazardly follow
a changing course
where  change is
true order of flow.
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