The sea is wild.

But certain things remain unchanged,

like the ordinariness of grit.

On top of the box

spelt ‘Spring Potato’

two crows perch

waiting for smiley- fries.

They dare you to shoo them away.

A piece of sculpted driftwood

lies on the shore

waiting for a purposeful tide,

to be washed up

on yet another coast.

And there’s more of the commonplace

to shrug off the memory of the storm.

The boys playing football

dreaming of Ronaldo,

send the coach

into a flying rage.

Shiny discarded wrappers

scattered by hungry beachgoers

flutter on the sand

and glisten in the first rays of the sun.

The day’s business is yet to begin.

Fishermen draw the nets

that they would soon drop into the waters.

Mornings and the beach air

stir deep unheard melodies

that the city breathes,

in this end of the year music season.