IT'S early Saturday and the crowds
Are still sparse as a sea mist
Obscures the Channel view
As if a ghost, twirling like a snake
Over the cliffs of the famous North Beach.
It's as grey as the pebbles on the shore
But soon the blue sky will be back once more.
Yet the mist has a beauty of its own
As transient as snow in spring
The water still, silver as a mirror
As a father and his small sons
Stroll slowly over the soaking sand
As the mysterious mist drifts on by
And I admire seagulls as they fly.