When we walked on the shoreline
bare foot like goddesses
making naked footprints in the dream time,
evening hung heavy on the water
and pressed the remaining fragments
of afternoon light into the ground
staining the wet sand orange.
As we wandered you found a battered box of crayons
damp and fading in a tide pool.
Only the red and yellow remained in the box
And their colors seeped together
Leaving streak of orange of the wet sand.
We came to an old jetty
left on the beach as the see leaked out,
dripping towards the moon.
we perched on the dry rocks
letting our toes grip the barnacles
and burrowing our fingers
into the sandy indents of stones
worn smooth with the caress of wind and water.
Beneath us the crabs scuttled
slipping into shrinking pools.
We watched those salt water sages,
mystics of dried foam and crushed sea weed.
We tried to read the marks
made by their sideways steps
in the damp mounds of sand, but gave up
as the orange light faded out.
It was I, who found tiny shells,
translucent arcs imbedded in the sand.
that whispered of a former life
below the dark folds of water.
We gathered them in out hands
until our palms were marked
with white crescents of pinched skin.
We held our finds to the sky,
Trying to press out our own constellations.
Standing there we wondered if
the night would yield to our touch
like wet sand.
At last we followed the sinking path of sunlight
out into the waves
until the damp cadence of the sea
drummed on out knees with salt
and the last rays of orange
were pressed into our skin.