At dawn this wild coast plays early host to a storm that\'s covered in cloud.
Waves rise and tumble and rolling they rumble under a low foggy shroud.
They froth and they hiss in a flurry of mist and carve their artwork on rocks.
They crash on the beach and threaten to breach walls protecting the docks.
The haze starts to lift as winds slowly shift revealing the power of the Ocean.
Nautical surges bear down on sand verges reshaping land with their motion.
Swells rear and dip as a squall wields its whip, spurring white horses to run.
They thud on the coast with thunderous boast and roar like a galleon’s gun.
The storm driven Ocean, a sea in commotion, spills onto a coastline so frail.
It’s fickle and free and this treacherous spree strikes terror in those under sail.
Full of myth and magic, it\'s cruel and tragic, its splendour spans east to west.
Tides ebbing and flowing, ever coming and going; the Ocean is never at rest.
Far out to sea the storm rages free, forming peaks and canyons so grand.
Dark waters rise high and touch the grey sky, mocking the mountains inland.
The storm\'s venom is spent; it ceases to vent; the Ocean has run out of fight.
Now perfectly still like the pond of a mill, no waves or white caps are in sight.