Barely contained by the eyesight,
the beach makes one great arc –
blue ranges overlapped behind it;
each of them a tide-mark.
About me, swamp-oaks’ foliage
streams, hatching by Cézanne.
Off in the heath, a guard’s carriage
follows the vats of a train.
A creek spoils the hem of the sea;
spread on the beach in flutes
it has the redness of black tea,
from the swamp’s sodden roots.
Behind, cloudy afternoon swells,
the colour of claret stain.
The sunlit town is strewn like shells.
Its lighthouse, a tiny pawn.
I’m walking on the beach alone;
the sea’s grey feathers flurry,
showing emerald. Sandpipers blown
seem mice, in their scurry.
And the sun on my shoulders brings,
because it’s perfect warmth,
the feeling that I wear great wings
while stepping along the earth.