He adjusts his contact lenses with regard.
A measured man who appreciates scale,
he next clips his handsome beard with studied care
- well, the forecaster did lack conviction.
He feels relieved, because he's found a place
where smoke goes straight up, and the sea reflects calm.
Not like before - when he'd seen twigs break off trees,
waves swelling rather too high at the beach,
and edges of crests spiralling to spindrift.
Foam had also been blown in the surge dance,
increasing tidal swirl all reeling twirl.
He had decided she wasn't worth it.
Not for the first time while out of season,
he'd thought slates would be lost, trees uprooted,
and there would be widespread structural damage.
Visibility could also well be . . .
well, be seriously affected too, he thought.
But now, his bow tie barely blows in the wind.