The midday sun stares blankly
With short shadowed harshness,
A soulless wash of blinding light.
Even in the cool autumn air,
A sear and aching dullness.
Yet the touch of dawn is a whispered promise,
Still breath between the cowl's rim.
Evening touches the dome of night
Pressed by orange fading light
Golden slips beneath the dark, with lifting ease.
The sand without the sea, a silent desert waits.
The sea, chanting, voices its waves upon the sand,
Hard and gently sloping briefly washed with sky.
Along the line of sea foam small white bellied birds,
With hunched shoulders studiously hop on thin legs,
And strike with precision at a fleet, erratic crustacean,
But not fleet or erratic enough to gain the sanctuary of the sea,
Its frantic dash terminated,
Fought over by two birds, one will win,
But either way, the small translucent crab will die.
The sky above a blank and painful blue,
So pure as darkens purple at the zenith, almost with a star.
Silver glimmering, gossamer thread of spider wrought,
Floats upon the onshore breeze, from the sky beyond the waves,
Undulates above the foam and barren sand, away,
Drifts from nothing and into nothing yet again.