LOW TIDE AT ST. ANDREWS

The long red flats stretch open to the sky,

Breathing their moisture on the August air.

The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers where

The rocks give shelter that the sands deny;

And wrapped in all her summer harmonies

St. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas.

The far-off shores swim blue and indistinct,

Like half-lost memories of some old dream.

The listless waves that catch each sunny gleam

Are idling up the waterways land-linked,

And, yellowing along the harbour's breast,

The light is leaping shoreward from the west.

And naked-footed children, tripping down,

Light with young laughter, daily come at eve

To gather dulse and sea clams and then heave

Their loads, returning laden to the town,

Leaving a strange grey silence when they go,—

The silence of the sands when tides are low.