( 3 ) THE SANDS

By John Gould Fletcher

Shallow pools of water

Are drinking up the sky;

Chasms of cool blue-white

In the brown of the sands.

The clouds are in them,

The houses on the shore,

The winds rumple the even

Glimmer of the reflection.

I dash across those shallow pools:

Starring their gauzy surface:

A plopping rush of bubbles:

I turn and watch my boot-tracks

Oozing upwards slowly in the dark wind-wrinkled sand.