A thread of shells marks where the water stayed, A broken border on the level sand. The sea has drawn it, then has slipped away; I trace its ragged edge with one bare hand.
Beyond that line, a footprint fills with light; A shallow pool reflects the moving sky. The gulls turn pages neither black nor white, Their shadows folding as they wheel on high.
I set a stone beside a strand of weed, A marker for a place I think I know. But water writes with little care for me; It smooths the names that careful fingers show.
When I return, the stone has changed its place. The shells lie scattered in another seam. The shore has not preserved my tiny trace; It keeps a story larger than my scheme.