Looking Out to Sea

The beauty of it:
Those powerful, foam-clad, rolling waves,
Drenched in late-Spring sun.
Far-off from Winter lunatics,
Who abuse their fragile frames,
And threaten the mighty sea,
With empty promises of conquest,
Or sport with overreaching self-congratulation.

The dredger passes by,
And it won't be long till early night,
When the Côte d'Albâtre admires another namesake,
As it narrows in to port at Newhaven -
And the Seven Sisters come into view,
On the starboard side.
Full of all-day, drinking Brits,
And their lairy, home-bound insults.