You near Ness from far inland:

First you hit pine, then you hit sand

Then the sky goes grey from the glare of the sea

Out there then, lonely, flat, old

East wind like a knife, spartan, cold

Eerie for its absence of feature

The seabirds cry, the spit moves in the storm like a creature

The gulls, the black-backs, the ghosts

The gulls, the black-backs, the ghosts

The gulls, the black-backs, the ghosts

The gulls, the black-backs, the ghosts

Can you hear something?