There is a path,    leads to the sea,
where the ocean spends it’s wind wound wrath
upon black  jagged  up thrust rocks.

High above there rears a steep and craggy headland,
which seems to stare across the waves,
beyond the ranked and rushing sweep of swells.

Wild windy days,    flecked flakes of foam upswept
to fly like frothy snow upon the gale,
and drift down slow within the lee,    where we await the call.

For there a heart is lost to time,
becoming free,    as oft’ through time it seems to be
when e’re man gazes   in quiet across the sea.
Spindrift - Gar Song