The Call - John Buchanan

Ragged granite sentinels tear at the hearts of the huge Atlantic rollers driven in by the gale.
White horses charge towards the shore, spume flying from their manes.
A thunderous roar heralds their approach, and then, the deep muffled thump as the foaming mass explodes against the stone wall.
Spray is hurled into the churning grey sky before falling back in a sheet which covers the road and the wall, again and again.

The mournful sound of the fog horn breaks through the shroud of fog which lingers on the morn.
Water chuckles gleefully in the douit which runs beside the narrow lane as it flows to the sea.
The Fog burns off, Primrose, Bluebell and Buttercup bejewel the hedgerow and ducklings paddle in the shallow water.
Birdsong fills the quiet valley as migrant and resident alike celebrate new life in harmony.

Narrow paths thread through the undergrowth, clinging to the rugged cliffs.
Campion, Thrift and Gorse abound, their colours, a riot amongst the myriad of greens which clothe the steep slopes.
Here and there outcrops of granite adorned with splashes of Lichen erupt from the Bracken to bask in the warm sun.
Heady scents, vibrant colours, the sound and taste of the sea and the touch of the warm sun assail the senses.

The Jewels of the hedgerows and cliffs have faded as the bracken and trees rust.
Now they bear treasures of a different kind as Blackberry, Rosehip and Sloe are picked by beak and hand alike.
Fallen leaves litter the paths and lanes and smoke from the bonfires drifts on the cool air.
Hedgehog, Field Mouse and the distant church bell celebrate the festival of harvest as the nights close in.

There I stand in the busy airport, eyes closed, listening.
From far away, across the ocean, I hear a call,
A call I once was told would come;
For no matter where I roam, Sarnia always calls me home.

John Carré Buchanan