At moments when the tide goes out,

The stones, still wet and ringing with

The drained-off retrogressive sea,

Lie fresh like fish on market stalls

And, speckled, shine. Some seem to float

In crevices where wavelets froth

Forgotten by the watery

Departure towards the moon. And shells

Shine too. But not the stranded boat,

Pale, lustreless, and not the wreath

Of seaweed coiled unvividly -

Both together flung too far

From water, welcomed dryly by

The sun. The dial-like starfish tells

Its brittle times of day. The flat

Sand stretches on into a myth

Of distance. Likewise does the sea.

Only the bathers, glistening, are

A frieze in movement towards the sky.