Ghosts of Margate

The curve of yellow bay is sending
sand-whirls on the front,
baby tornadoes on the pavement by the arcades  
in the strongest winds I've ever seen.
The sea is tumultuous;
crashes of waves foamed white
and I think about how we don't have
real waves at home.
Al fresco chairs fly down the seafront
from busy breakfast cafes -
the Margate poltergeists are on one again,
wrenching newspapers from tight grasps and
making hair whip upwards.
Indoors, there's little comfort
as the windows thunder with the
clamour of ghosts trying to get in.
Upstairs, I'm level with television aerials -
I watch them out of the window, jerking like mad metronomes.
We fight our way out of the front door,
which makes a show of not wanting to be closed,
and it takes three of us to wrench open the car.
My hat shoots down the street; my wife runs after it.
On the drive home,
I feel grit in my teeth -

sand that had flown into my mouth while I had 

laughed uncontrollably

trying to walk upright in the freak gale.
I crunch down on it, my holiday keepsake,
and we drive pass felled trees,
watching them lie defeated
on the roadside,

the ghosts chalking up another victory.