Before you and behind you

the long perspectives reach,

to vanish down the distance

in ribbed and shining beach.

You seem to walk on water

when through the midday heat

your spiralling reflection

ripples beneath your feet.

The boats upon their hawsers

feel a receding tide

and towards the lunar summons

shift knocking side by side.

Locked in the sun's surveillance

on acquiescent sand

you grip the shape of melting time

like ice inside your hand.

-------------------------

© Brian Fewster,
Published in Exit 21, 1998

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