It comes suddenly in my memory, rolling off the North Sea and catching us unawares. Although it has been known to move slowly and settle, blanketing the whole of a day, it moves fast at the shore till we’re running and shrieking not just with cold but laughter at the need to leave the sea so suddenly.
The haar already thick and white with cold, I see my mother standing by the dunes, her arms outstretched with towels that will scratch our skin with sand.
at the water’s edge
a shroud of haar
the seagulls cry