Air is where the seagulls are. This is where the clouds are so low that you can touch. Air is where the wind is in the hood.
Where the sea around the wellies and sand in sleeves is.
Where the tea with honey is.
There is nestling splashing wallows in the puddle in Ayr.
There are seashells in the palms and disheveled hair.
There’s sand castles, there roars the Irish Sea, there is seen Arron.
There is the sails, there are jumping on the waves of kite-surfers
There is splashing water and foam remains in the sand.
There’s children’s laugher, the noise and clamor of discordant waves of Celtic.
There is Ayr.