The winds are wildly lashing at my face;
The sea-spray fills the air – each wave a crash
Against the sky beneath a lightning flash.
As grim the beach, the rain it suits my place.
It courts the weather openly, not chase
The foul away. No chastity, but brash
Envelop near – as close to skin as rash.
The water slick, it carves a lonely space.
Return to calm and safe abode with oven
Full warming, cradling perfect Autumn fare:
My mother’s stew and dumplings – a feast for the eye –
Or the gravied brilliance of a shepherd’s pie,
Bewitched with mash and meat as are witches of a coven.
The magic of quaint England is here for all to share.