A poem by Will Burns.

The cloud clears at some point
but the wind keeps itself up,
blows the bramblings and buntings 
and other brown jobs around,
tests the technique of the kestrel 
which uses this headland to hunt.
If it does die down for a second,
there is the last lick of heat on the air—
a memory of old colour, old calm.
Soon it will rage against the hillside,
head off to sea and come back pissed.
Your brother scours the apps
for signs of surf. A morning in the ocean
will help with everything, he says.
Bad back, sore head, a heart in shock.