Witnessing a build-up

Below my feet the gulls wheel and soar,
there are rumours of waves at the cliff foot.

Clouds start piling up like sandbags,
hidden turbines engineer a gale;

on that wrinkled turquoise page
two boats draw self-erasing diagrams.

Is this still summer? Lightning
flashes like a knife in the street.

Two boats demonstrate
the resolution of forces,

a third with spinnaker full
runs before the wind,

a fat woman hunted
across a town square.

I head quickly for the car.
If there's a capsize
I won't see a thing.
I'll be home and dry.