Gardenstown – N E Scotland

North Sea lashes the grey-walled fishing harbour
tied up boats never still, ropes straining, constantly
fidgeting. Cacophony of clanking rides on waves
of the Force 10 gale. Folk in stone washed cottages
along Seatown, keep their bright coloured doors shut.

Along the seaweed straddled beach, driftwood, twisted rope
and torn lobster pots are just some of the booty thrown
clear as re-cycling for tomorrows beach-combers. Fulmars
cling in tight, landlocked on cliff-face; protecting chicks from
salt laden spray, which chills small bones and steals life.

Ruins of the Kirk of St John sit high on the headland
amidst bracken and sea-thrift. Erosion eats its way
with every storm. Gravestones lean and tombstones lie
with weathered words of names laid to eternal rest
‘fisherman, lost at sea, drowned at twenty- one’.

Overcast sky dims further into blackness, so at
4pm late afternoon is already night. The autumn
storm retreats beyond the horizon relinquishing
its hold over the land. Trawlers out of Peterhead
and Fraserburgh face the wroth of the sea now.