It was always a front row seat.
House like a wedding cake with columns,
next door to a derelict mansion.
Waves like White Tigers leaping-
Their spittle-flung pebbles to dash salt-flecked panes.
Always the thump of surf on stone, then a scatter of spray.
So very different from Summer basking on paint-peeled window sills,
Watching International students promenading,
Alumni proudly treading the paves to kick the bar.
Then deep, in the dead of night, the storm abating.
Standing stark naked in my bedroom, with only the tide to see.
Relishing the metronomic waves,
wafting on dawn.
As if nothing had happened.
Copyright Tom Tide 2017