Washing is the ocean on the sand,
and crackling is the air that rushes up,
as the water rushes down.
The breeze is rife with icy salt,
the foam frosts the waves,
all is gilded here with the rushing of time.
White the salt, white the foam, white the clouds on far horizon.
White the hats and summer dresses,
white the faces not yet browned by the sun.
White the glare of noon time rays,
white the page before me,
where I scribble simple notes.
But deep is the other colors of the conflict of the three
earth tones of the land,
blue of the sea of brine and air,
and greening gold the color of life that clings,
to the rifts and rills and rolls of the beach and bog.
I would be imprisoned here in memory,
because you have gilded this scene with your face
Gilded to the wind with a whisper of your affection,
that I and only I am the water into which
you long to plunge,
and pulled away by undertow,
never to return again.