First, there is
a stripe of grass, mown short
then a stretch of brilliant sand
and after that the sea begins,
white lips wide on green
then blue for miles to the crisp horizon.
You can look at the grass, and at the sea
but waves of hot air, rising,
make a fire-wall of sand. You can't hear
the breaking waves
or any children on the beach.
Surely those horizontal forms
could not be naked people, sunbathing.
That hazy stick-figure could just be
a walker, shimmering through.
Squinting you'll see how its image firms up
then blurs, jerks forward
leaving something of itself behind –
though this remnant could be
shadow on the sand
or a wound on your retina.
The mincing rhythm
suggests burning feet.
There are striped umbrellas above all this.
They hang easily against the blues
and trill their frills
over the place that lies between.