The wind rips through the reeds, no gentle whispering rippling this, but a whipping, flattening wind, that numbs the cheekbones and whistles through tripod legs, racing ahead of the oncoming storm and ominous clouds that gather and collide, piling into each other on the horizon. It buffets and tears at the sea kale that crouches, clings, prostrate on the shingle shore. Any vegetation that has had its grip on the breath of soil loosened by the Summer's drying sun, is lifted and flung, like a child’s abandoned plaything, high in the air to tumble and toss across the salted pebbles towards the waiting mercurial sea that lashes and claws at the beach in its impatience. Gulls, startling white against the darkened sky, wheel and turn. The bird in telescope view has hunkered down, gone to ground. Lost. We turn away to walk head down along the shingle ridge, the ever hungry wind still clawing at our backs, we have not learnt yet the sea kale’s lesson of growing low, this is not our world, we are intruders here. When storms brew, the shingle spit is better left to tumble weed and wheeling gulls.