Unsteady feet,
Tread cobbled, wobbled floor,
Little potted plants,
Dead at the door.

Salt in the air,
Flurries of sun
Entwine fair hair.

Cables zap as they shake
Up above,
In this place of chipped paint,
Lacking it's love.

Spray crashes over
The spread harbour arm,
Knocking out,
All of its charm.

A sweep of the gale,
All unsteady will fail
to keep postured posed and poised.

A flick of the mist,
wail of the lighthouse,
As the weather consumes,
The quaint little homes,
All torn up
In the turmoil of natures fumes.