Overnight the wind has gone more westerly; and strengthened. On the seaward shores of Bryher, the waves break high. Shattering into white plumes of wind blown spume.
A wind strong enough to lean against; as I drink in the spectacle before me: Half hard jutting land, half surging seething water.
A dragon's tooth, of granite, throws up a bow wave, fit for a tea clipper, as the hurrying tide scurries through the Inner Neck reef.
I clamber down, off the high cliff, among the moonscape of rock, in search of sunlit shelter, for a picnic lunch.
I find it, in the lee of Gweal Hill. As I eat, black rain squalls chase across the horizon, to the north. Dark shadows on the shimmering sea.
Back on the sheltered side of the island, one, briefly, catches me, as I row back to Stargazer. Making amends, moments later, with an innocently smiling rainbow.
A boiling, smoking, turbulent sunset ends a wild day of weather.
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