The bow cuts through
Flat calm, still blue.
Propeller churned white
Bubbles behind.
Seagulls soar, squawking
Maritime greetings,
As the reassuring chug of oily engine
Carries far on light breeze.
Sandy coves nestle, secluded
Among rugged cliffs,
Topped with rolling acres of
Green sheep gnawn fields.
Trees bent angular by the
Wrath of winter winds,
Pay hommage to sensual summer.
Golden yellow sun reflects off
Windows of fishing cottages,
Thatched against storms
Huddled by harbours.
On the horizon
A collection of vessels,
Bobbing cork like
Grace the skyline.
Fresh clean salty air
Assaults the senses,
As the sea's magic
Works her charm on the soul.