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.

Guy Fletcher