Culling Night

Wind rumbles in unprotected ears, lashes hair into stinging eyes and herds sheets of scouring sand across the empty beach, where chalk cobbles cast long fingers, stark black against pale gold.

White horses cavort maniacally atop battleship waves that charge landward to smack and suck at staunch stone defences, breaking back to clash with next advancing wave in a fountain of foaming spray, before splashing down to rejoin Sea's determined assault on Land.

Westward, grey clouds skulk on the horizon to ambush a falling sun, and gulls flee inland to hunker down, silent beneath winter's black and icy culling night.